


Masquerade

by mickie



Series: The Stranger [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Kidnapping, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Panic Attacks, Sassy Sebastian, drunk/drugged shenanigans, jimcroft - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 12:22:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13294803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickie/pseuds/mickie
Summary: After his supposed death, Jim Moriarty attends a masked ball while running his business under multiple simultaneous aliases.  Trouble ensues.This story is now complete.





	1. Embassy Ball

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabricdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/gifts).



> This story is based on the prompts given to me by fabricdragon: kidnapping, mistaken identity, drunk/drugged shenanigans, and weddings. I'm breaking my rule of three out of four prompts since all four will be present. Fabricdragon's story with these prompts is [love potion number 9 it isn't, but it will have to do](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13269648/chapters/30360975).
> 
> I'm reusing some of Jim's aliases from previous stories as I like their character concepts. They are not the same characters.
> 
> Anytime a character is speaking or texting in a foreign language, I use the symbols { and } inside the quotes or underlined.

**Masquerade**

Entering the conference room that was now serving as a room for the appetizer buffet, Jim frowned at the decor. The German embassy in St. Petersburg seemed to exemplify the worst traits of both cultures in his mind. Jim had to suffer through one more meeting and make an appearance at the masked ball while Sebastian finished a job. Then they could leave. He was more than ready to return to the solitude of his home on the outskirts of Tartu, Estonia. 

Under the guise of Viktor Chelyadnin, the now-deceased James Moriarty’s Russian bookkeeper, he’d spent two weeks, first in Kiev and now St. Petersburg, solidifying the position of Moriarty’s heir, Charlie Masseria, an American mobster with ties to the old Italian LCN families, with the Russian mob. Charlie Masseria was one of his favorite aliases. That evening, he was meeting a diplomat, Nikolai Brouchkov. The young man was an attaché to the Russian consul in Seattle and was very amenable to installing software at the consulate. 

Jim had gone through significant effort to have the evening’s fête changed to a masked ball so that there would be more anonymity. Surprisingly, the German ambassador had been most amenable when he’d heard of the suggestion. That in and of itself warranted investigation. There could be potential for intriguing cases for a retired and apparently dead consulting criminal. He and Nikolai found a discreet corner and engaged in a seemingly casual conversation interrupted with appropriately timed visits to the caviar appetizers.

The distinct beep from his cell phone, indicating a priority text from a client, interrupted the conversation. Jim wanted to growl. The job that was currently underway had proved to be the most utterly tedious and annoying opprobrium. The client, one Fridrik Tikhonovich, was an absolute disgrace beyond the likes of which he normally dealt. The only reason Jim, under the alias of Wassily Kabakov, Charlie Masseria’s lieutenant in Moscow, had accepted the case was because of the incredible fee that the client had been willing to pay _up front_ and the timing coincided perfectly with this meeting. 

As the case progressed, Jim had considered eliminating the man simply on point for the number of times that he had been bothered and badgered with incessant fretting, worrying, and micromanaging. The amount of the retainer was becoming increasingly irrelevant to the client’s continued existence.

“{Excuse me for a moment,}” Jim said. His Russian was perfect; it spoke of Moscow or east central Russia with hints of Kiev. 

“{Of course, Viktor,}” Nikolai said. Jim found his charming innocence combined with a willingness to be bought utterly adorable, and useful. “{I have a gift for you. I didn’t want to be late so Gregor, one of the guards, is bringing it. I’ll go get it while you attend to matters.}” Jim smiled congenially. “{We got in a shipment of Iordanov and I brought some for you.}”

“{Iordanov?}” Jim asked and chuckled. He was rather fond of the German vodka for many reasons. Truly a thoughtful gift. “{My favorite. How did you know?}” 

It was Nikolai’s turn to chuckle. “{Skulls.}”

“{You’re good,}” Jim said while realizing that he needed to eliminate that Moriarty trait a bit more. “{Which one did you get?}” He was also rapidly calculating how he could move this young man back to Europe. He was much smarter than he seemed and could prove to be quite useful.

“{That will have to be the surprise since I couldn’t resist telling you what it was.}”

“{I will be pleased no matter what,}” Jim said and smiled again as Nikolai bowed his head and walked away. He then pulled out his phone and checked the message. It was Fridrik Tikhonovich.

{Done?!?} -FT

Forcing himself to inhale, then exhale deeply, Jim counted silently to ten. Three times. Tikhonovich was an insufferable boor. One more asinine text and Jim was redirecting the hit.

{Please review your contract. CM will be displeased if I have to inform him of your useless prattle.} -WK

The case was fairly simple. A man named Pyotr Kulibin had seduced the client’s daughter under the pretense of marriage. Once he’d slept with her, he’d cancelled the wedding, broken off the engagement, and disparaged the family. Tikhonovich had sought revenge at any price, even the one demanded by Charlie Masseria.

{I demand to speak to the agent that will be avenging my beautiful daughter!!} -FT

{I paid the fee well in advance!!!} -FT

{Our family demands justice for Tatiana!!} -FT

{I’ll inform CM.} -WK

{Politely, of course. Firmly, but politely.} -FT

{I’m going to relate every text that you have sent me since the inception of our communications.} -WK

{Perhaps it is better to wait for the report of your success.} -FT

{Of course.} -WK

“{Fucking barbarian,}” Jim muttered under his breath but then smiled pleasantly, put his cell phone away, and eased his way to the devilled eggs with caviar. No one noticed anything other than Viktor Chelyadnin, mild-mannered bookkeeper. He texted Sebastian for an update on the assassination. Pyotr Kulibin was an arrogant bastard and, therefore, an easy target.

*~*~*

“This is utterly ridiculous,” Mycroft grumbled miserably. He was in a foreign country instead of home in London. He was MI5 not a field agent from MI6. Therefore he was the last person who should be galavanting around Russia, even in a secure embassy. He’d just been informed that the high-level meeting was actually an embassy ball and that said ball had been changed to a masked occasion at the last minute leaving him no room to pay his respects and decline.

“It’ll be fun, Mycroft,” Franz, the German liaison to England, said and smiled complacently as though he were relishing Mycroft’s discomfort. Mycroft made a mental note to make the man’s life as miserable as possible when he returned to London. “And with the masks, you have a certain degree of anonymity. Even _you_ can see the benefit of that.”

Mycroft refrained from swatting the man with his umbrella. Or stabbing him with the hidden blade. “There is _that_ but it is all just so ridiculously frivolous and time consuming. Only tedious little minds find enjoyment in this sort of thing.” He glared at the man, who had the decency to wince. “If we could just have the meeting discreetly, in a private room, then those of us who do not wish to be inconvenienced with such foolishness as a ball can be on our merry way.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Franz muttered and handed Mycroft the box he was holding. “Here’s a mask for now. The ambassador sent it.” The fulminating glare that Mycroft leveled at him caused the man to cringe visibly. “I’ll work on the meeting, right away!” After bowing politely, he almost ran out of the room.

Mycroft sighed and opened the box. It contained a feathered and glittery green, gold, and purple monstrosity that was reminiscent of the masks that he’d seen in New Orleans for Mardi Gras. He pulled it out and shook his head in disgust. “No, I surely cannot. Absolutely _not_. It will be the rubbish bin for this immediately.”

As he turned, a man almost ran into him. Panicked. Trying to hide. Guilty. “{Oh, I’m sorry,}” the man said a bit breathlessly. Moscow accent. “{I wasn’t paying attention.}”

“{Of course,}” Mycroft said flatly and in a manner that intimated his annoyance. The man looked behind him as though he though he were being followed. “{Is there a problem?}”

“{No, no,}” the man said. Lying. “{Just trying to avoid an encounter with my ex and not making a minor indiscretion worse.}” Truth. The man eyed the mask in Mycroft’s hand. “{Can we switch masks?}” 

Mycroft wasn’t sure what to think but didn’t see any reason to deny the request. Properly telling off someone’s ex might relieve some tension. On top of that, no mask could be worse than the one that he was holding. “{Of course,}” he said in his most charming voice. “{I would be very happy to help you escape this debacle.}” Inspiration struck. Perhaps there was another way out of this farcical charade. “{Do you need a driver, by any chance?}” His security detail would have an absolute fit but Mycroft needed to leave, meeting be damned. He’d reschedule the meeting for later the following day.

“{No, no,}” the man said and quickly grabbed Mycroft’s mask. He tossed a bag at Mycroft and then ran out of the room.

Mycroft barely managed to catch the bag and not crush it’s contents. He glared at the retreating form. What a bother. “Perhaps I can find some other desperado that needs a ride out of here,” he said quietly to himself as he pulled the mask out of the bag and then rolled his eyes. It was a minor improvement. A black and gold “V” mask. He found the concept of a minor government official such as himself wearing that mask intriguing and utterly ironic. It did match the tuxedo and gold cufflinks that he was wearing. The prime minister would be horrified. Grinning slyly, he put the mask on and strolled purposefully into the grand ballroom.

*~*~*

Sebastian watched the man make his way through the ballroom and grinned ferally. This was the type of assignment he relished. A quick assassination. Jim had said that if he could capture the mark and torture him before the kill, that would be preferable. However Jim wasn’t there and was probably drinking vodka with his mob connections or whatever Jim did at these functions to entertain himself. Sebastian preferred the potent adrenaline rush of a quick kill.

He’d baited the target, seen him panic, and now waited for the perfect moment. When he saw the man wearing a ridiculous mask move into the perfect spot, he fired. One shot.

Down. 

Almost as good as sex with Jim.

*~*~*


	2. Shall We Dance?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim finds more intrigue at the ball than he wanted.

After concluding their business, Jim and Nikolai had proceeded to enjoy the Iordanov vodka that Nikolai had brought. After several shots, and he couldn’t quite remember how many, Jim decided to turn his head first to a small-scale pastry heist and then towards greater mischief. The stuffy embassy ball needed livening up. Jim was also a bit worried that perhaps the vodka had been laced with something. He felt fine but not quite right.

“{You do know that if we get caught, Viktor, we’re going to be in so much trouble,}” Nikolai whispered a bit too loudly as Jim made his way back from the kitchen carrying two small plates filled with elegant pastries decorated with chocolate ganache and gold-leaf. Jim was wearing a full face white dragon mask accented with white plumes, a white feathery frill, sapphire crystals, and gray detailing that matched his tuxedo. Nikolai wore a French gray tuxedo and a black Batman mask edged in gold.

“{Please,}” Jim scoffed as he handed Nikolai a pastry. “{I’m a master at this.}”

“{I have no doubts.}” Nikolai smiled and both men walked toward the main ballroom.

Jim pulled out his phone and accessed the embassy computer system. Easy-peasy. “{Show time.}”

Nikolai chuckled but then indicated the hallway where the meeting room they’d been in was located. “{What do you think, Viktor, one more quick drink before the fun starts?}” he suggested. “{Neither one of us is even slightly tipsy.}”

And that set off all sorts of warning bells in Jim’s mind. He shook his head and smiled sweetly. “{I’m not used to drinking,}” he admitted shyly. “{I’m afraid I’ve already had too much. I’m struggling with my phone.}” Nikolai nodded agreeably but Jim saw miniscule hints of calculation. The bastard has a plan. Too bad he doesn’t realize that he’s dealing with Jim Moriarty and not mild-mannered bookkeeper, Viktor Chelyadnin. “{But let’s go back and get you one more.}”

“{No, that’s not necessary,}” Nikolai immediately demurred.

“{I insist,}” Jim said and shot the man his best sweet-and-innocent-Viktor look. “{I would feel guilty for ruining your evening.}”

“{Well, we can’t have that,}” Nikolai said and Jim almost wanted to laugh at the hints of reticence he saw. They turned and walked down the hallway leading to the meeting room where they’d been drinking. The bottle was still tucked away underneath Nikolai’s coat but Jim saw that the coat wasn’t exactly the way it had been left. His head spun a little and he decided that perhaps after getting rid of Pyotr Kulibin, seducer of innocent maids, and Fridrik Tikhonovich, aggrieved father of innocent maids and headache-inducing client, he would see about interrogating Nikolai. After the software had been installed in the Seattle consulate, of course.

Watching Nikolai carefully, Jim navigated the embassy computer system. He observed that the young man poured himself an exceptionally small shot but did drink it. Nikolai then poured a full shot and offered it to Viktor. Jim smiled and shook his head. “{I’ve really had too much, Nikolai,}” he said. “{I may not be worth more than one dance as it is.}”

“{You’ll be fine,}” Nikolai assured him. “{I’ll hold you up if I have to,}” he added flirtatiously.

Jim giggled and then held up his finger indicating Nikolai should wait. “{Hold on, I’ve almost got this.}” Nikolai handed him the shot anyways. “{Thank you. I guess it can’t hurt.}” He started aimlessly pacing with phone in one hand and the shot glass in the other.

Nikolai laughed. “{It’ll be fun. Did Moriarty ever let you do things like this?}”

Jim felt his head spin just a little bit again. Something was definitely not right. He forced himself to focus. “{No. Moriarty was very, very strict. He didn’t tolerate any foolishness and he despised the Bee Gees.}” When he passed by a plant, he surreptitiously poured the drink in it and then pocketed the empty glass. He’d send it to one of his labs later.

“{The bastard!}”

“{Agreed!}” Jim finished adding several lines of code and then activated the modified program. “{All done!}”

“{Let’s go!}”

*~*~* 

The opening dance of the ball was a Polonaise and only the German ambassador, his wife, and the few who could claim a royal lineage danced. High ranking consular officials joined them for the subsequent dance, a minuet. Afterward, the dance floor was open to all attendants. The fourth dance, a tango, was mysteriously cut off mid-count and _Disco Inferno_ started playing.

Chaos ensued. Jim and Nikolai immediately switched to disco dancing. Jim found himself highly entertained by the confusion. After the song ended, the ambassador called for attention, apologized profusely, and assured everyone that the problem had been fixed. Several songs later and much to the ambassador’s dismay, _You Should Be Dancing_ blasted over the speakers.

Jim and Nikolai were thoroughly entertained by the mayhem. As they danced their way through the song, Jim again felt a bit light-headed. He also wondered why there were no reports from Sebastian or any uproar over an assassination. Even if Kulibin was a minor official, murders at embassy parties were generally frowned upon.

As soon as the song ended, Jim professed the desire to rest for a moment and the two made their way to one side of the room. _I Will Survive_ started playing loudly causing a mixture of applause and dismay. “{You did well,}” Nikolai said as the Italian consul, dragging a young woman who was obviously his mistress by the arm, stormed by them complaining loudly about American music.

“{They all secretly love it,}” Jim stated but then frowned as though something were wrong. “{I need to check something. There was a discrepancy in a ledger in Moscow. I need to make sure that it’s been fixed. Otherwise, you know… Just a moment.}” As Nikolai politely turned away, he checked his phone. No message from Sebastian. That was annoying. Pyotr Kulibin should be dead and halfway to hell by now although Jim was sure that he’d start receiving texts from Tikhonovich soon. He noticed Nikolai observing him covertly. He turned deliberately and smiled sweetly at the young man. “{No word, so, that means everything is fine.}”

“{Do you want to go back upstairs for a bit more vodka or, maybe, _something else_...?}” Nikolai’s voice became huskier as he said the last two words and Jim almost wanted to laugh. Nikolai was feigning interest in Viktor but Viktor Chelyadnin was known to be a bit prudish and most definitely not on the market. He wondered if Nikolai felt a real attraction or if this was part of a ploy.

“{That sounds intriguing,}” Jim replied but, again, found himself wondering what Nikolai wanted. This certainly wasn’t a simple seduction. The young man was just a little too easy-going, smooth, and cooperative and yet, he was encouraging Viktor to perhaps drink too much and _talk_. Jim, however, wasn’t a sloppy, careless drunk.

Shifting slightly to intimate that he was more impaired than he thought he was, Jim tilted his head to one side and he looked at Nikolai shyly. “{And I think I’d like to. I do need to say hello to one person. Mr. Masseria wants me to,}” he explained and waved vaguely to the dance floor. “{Could you get me a cup of tea and then meet me at the room?}”

Nikolai nodded. “{Of course, but I’ll wait for you at the bar. I don’t want to lose you in this crowd.}”

Jim noted that Nikolai hid a pleased, confident smile rather well. Only a fool would trust another person with getting them a drink and Jim Moriarty was no fool. He would be gone before the tea was steeped. “{Yes, of course, my friend. I’ll just be a few minutes,}” Jim said. “{If we get separated, I’ll text you.”} Nikolai nodded again and walked toward the bar.

Jim moved quickly toward a large group that was speaking French. This evening needs to be done. Jim wanted to go to his flat, have a _safe_ drink and some tea, and perhaps some wildly violent sex with Sebastian. As he blended into the group but continued to observe the crowds, he saw the man. Pyotr Kulibin. Tall, regal bearing, reddish brown hair, just a bit of a tummy, elegant black tuxedo, black and gold “V” mask. What the hell?! Jim closed his eyes momentarily and then silently asked the faeries why they were being unkind to him that evening. His head spun a bit when he had his eyes closed and he wondered if he shouldn’t have gotten that tea himself before trying to do anything else.

He opened his eyes and steeled his resolve. “What is Moran not doing?” he grumbled under his breath as he stared, perhaps a bit too obviously at the man. Jim noted that Kulibin was carefully and effectively avoiding large groups, open spaces, and areas where someone could have a direct line of sight, all while seeming to blend in.

“Very clever....” Jim muttered still under his breath. Moran probably had the man in his sights but couldn’t get a clean shot without causing too much of a commotion. That made sense. Seb was competent. Jim rolled his eyes and decided that he needed to provide an assist or they would be here for a few more hours at the rate things were going. That was unacceptable.

Maneuvering behind the man, he admired how skillfully Kulibin was avoiding contact with others. An interesting challenge but nothing James Moriarty couldn’t manage. The man sensed him as he approached. Jim smirked behind his mask as he slid his hands around the man’s hips and gripped them firmly. “{Care to dance, lovely?}”

Kulibin spun and seemed to want to struggle as he stammered out a denial but Jim pulled him in so that their bodies touched. “{I insist},” he murmured. “{Waltzes are so sensual and they can be rather naughty.}”

“{I really shouldn’t,}” Kulibin whispered. “{I have a meeting in-}” Not letting him finish, Jim pulled the man toward the middle of the dance floor before positioning their hands properly and waiting for the first beat. He kept Kulibin pressed against him. Waltzes really were supposed to be rather wicked and that was Jim’s specialty.

“{I really..}” Kulibin mumbled but then remained silent as Jim started leading. It was obvious that the man was extremely skilled at dancing but didn’t really know how to follow. Jim continued to hold him tighter than strictly necessary but soon Kulibin relaxed against him. Jim let his fingers slide a little backwards so they pressed against the curve of the man’s ass and he lightly tapped the rhythm. Surely, he could blame the vodka for that. He wished his head would clear. At least, all he had to do was get Kulibin somewhere so that Sebastian could shoot him.

As the waltz progressed, Jim found himself getting lost in the dance. Kulibin was truly an exceptional dancer once he caught on how to follow Jim's lead. It was going to be such a shame to kill the man. Jim found himself entertaining scenarios where he could keep him. This was enchanting and Jim almost didn’t mind that his head was spinning. There was also something about Kulibin’s cologne. Jim knew he’d smelled it before but couldn’t quite place it. The scent did make everything seem more magical. He decided he’d forgive the faeries since they’d given him this dance.

Eventually the waltz came to an end and Kulibin sighed. “{That was… lovely.}”

“{It was,}” Jim agreed. “{You’re beautiful when you dance.}” He smiled to himself as the man let out a small gasp but then tried to hide it. “{Shall we dance another?}” he asked and gripped Kulibin a little more tightly. “{I don’t think the next one is going to be disco.}”

“{Much as I would like to, I really can’t. I really am expected in a meeting in a few minutes.}”

Jim frowned behind the mask. If Kulibin escaped to another room, it would be much harder for Sebastian to get a clean shot. He knew he shouldn’t worry about Sebastian but he did just a bit whenever he was actively involved. “{Just one more?}” he asked sweetly. Kubilin seemed uncertain. “{I’ll make it worth your while...}”

Kubilin seemed to freeze momentarily and then shook his head and Jim got the distinct impression that the man was going to flee. “{I…}” Kubilin began. “{Perhaps, after, but I, well, we can…}”

The music started again, a merengue, and Kulibin started to pull away with more determination. Jim moved quickly. He let go of the man’s hand and slipped his other arm around the man’s waist. Kubilin tensed but before he could speak, Jim had a blade, which he always carried hidden, pressed against the man’s side underneath his tuxedo jacket. “{Let’s go outside and take a breath of fresh air instead, then}” he said firmly.

Kulibin paused and shook his head. “{I could scream,}” he said and tried to shift away from the blade and Jim.

“{And you wouldn’t get past an inhale,}” Jim growled and pushed the tip of the blade in just a little so that it cut through the man’s shirt and bit into skin. “{Behave and you’ll live past the next minute.}” Jim started maneuvering them toward the main door.

“{Would it be rather impolite of me to ask why you’re doing this?}” Kulibin inquired and Jim saw that his eyes were rapidly scanning the premises for any opportunity. He had to get them out of there quickly.

“{I think you know why,}” Jim said as they neared the door. “{But if you need a hint, it has something to do with one of the numerous young ladies that you’ve ruined.}”

The man stumbled slightly. “{I assure you, I have _not_ ruined _any_ young ladies.}” And then he tried to shift into Jim before spinning sideways to escape.

Feeling the first shift, Jim didn’t react but prepared for the subsequent move. Sebastian had trained him in close-quarters combat and he’d been using a knife since he was six. When Kulibin spun away, he followed and then sliced the man’s side, just enough to cut the top layer of skin. All still completely invisible under the tuxedo jacket. Jim pulled the man close and whispered, “{Nice try, love, but it will go much worse for you if you don’t behave.}”

“{I’m not who you think I am,}” the man replied in just as soft a voice and Jim could tell that he was trying not to tremble. 

They reached the door to the ballroom and Jim sensed that Kulibin wanted to fight again. He shifted the blade so it grazed over the cut. “{We just have to make it past these guards in the entryway,}” he murmured. “{Pretend to be drunk.}”

“{I’m not drunk,}” Kulibin grit out. “{And I ask that you reconsider because I am not-}”

“{Shut up,}” Jim growled. His head was starting to spin just a little bit more and he tried to remember how much vodka he’d actually had with Nikolai and where, exactly, Sebastian was supposed to be. “{And yes, you are.}” He cut into the man’s side a bit more and Kulibin winced. Jim knew that had to hurt.

“{Yes,}” Kubilin sullenly agreed. “{Oh, my! That was stronger than I thought!}” he added loudly while they walked past the guards at the front door.

“{I’ve got you, love,}” Jim said also a bit too loudly. Holding Kulibin that way felt oddly right and that worried Jim. Something was wrong with his head. He hoped Sebastian was close. They rapidly made their way out the door and down the main staircase. Where was Sebastian? 

With no sign of his sniper, Jim led them toward the square in the direction where he knew, or rather hoped, that his car would be waiting. That should give Sebastian an easy shot. There were a lot of people and parked cars in the square. It was still early and many revelers from the party were outside enjoying the brisk evening air. Jim moved them expertly and in ways that would leave them very visible. Still no bullet.

Where was Sebastian?! He should have had his eyes on them since before they left the embassy. Jim took a deep breath as they kept walking. He might have to murder Moran as well. After Moran shot Kulibin. His head was spinning more as he tried to walk faster. Where the hell was his idiot sniper? Jim started coming up with ways to torture the man. Sebastian. Maybe Kulibin too. If Sebastian didn’t get his arse in gear and shoot him, then Jim could torture them both.

A black sedan started moving towards them. Still keeping Kulibin pressed against him, he focused on the license plate. It was blurry. Why was it blurry? Finally Jim saw the numbers. T847XC 750Rus. Perfect. Silently thanking the faeries, he wondered if the wisest move wouldn’t be to shoot Kubilin at the precise moment that the car pulled up. Then they could make a quick getaway. Jim felt his head spin again and decided that drawing a firearm at that moment might not be wise. Depending on how competent Kubilin was, he might be giving his opponent an opportunity with a loaded firearm.

“{Please,}” Kubilin whispered desperately. Jim knew that the other man saw the car slow down and pull up to them and Jim sensed his panic. “{I’m really not the person you think I am.}”

Sebastian got out of the passenger side and opened the rear door. While blocking line of sight with his body, he drew a pistol and leveled it at Kulibin’s head before pulling the man inside the car after him. Jim followed and nearly fell on top of them. “{Are you alright, boss?}” Sebastian asked. Jim glared at him and then straightened himself on the other side of Kulibin. Why wasn’t Sebastian upset? Or appreciative that he had captured the target? The car started moving.

Jim waved a hand dismissively. “{I’m fine,}” he said and then growled. “{Why the hell is this man still alive?}”

“{Uhhhhh…}” Sebastian mumbled. “{I don’t know…?}” Jim felt a headache starting on top of the dizziness.

“{I’d like to stay alive, thank you,}” Kulibin interjected shakily.

“{No, sorry, I was paid a lot of money to eliminate you,}” Jim said cheerfully even though he was not amused at the situation. He accepted the bottle of water that Sebastian handed to him, opened it, and took a sip. Sebastian looked like he was trying to covertly tell him something. It hurt to think about it. “{You deflowered the wrong maiden and her irate, over-protective, annoying, worthless idiot of a father paid me an ungodly and insane amount of money to avenge the family honor. The least I can do here is follow through before I kill him.}”

Sebastian eyed Jim pointedly. “{You don’t sound fine, boss, so, maybe we should not talk about certain things until we get home, okay?}” He kept the pistol against Kulibin’s head. “{What did you have?}”

“{Nothing. Not a thing. I don’t remember. I’m fine,}” Jim grumbled and looked up at the roof of the car. “{I need some answers from you that make sense.}”

“{Drink more water, boss,}” Sebastian said and Jim did so. Water always helped when he had a headache.

“{I did not deflower any maiden,}” Kulibin argued. “{I can’t remember the last time I even kissed a maiden or anyone else for that matter. You have the wrong person. Please listen to reason here. I am not the man that you are looking for.}”

Jim sat up fully, turned, and stared at Sebastian. “{Why is he not dead?}” he growled. “{You were supposed to kill him.}”

Sebastian arched an eyebrow and looked from Jim to Kulibin and then back to Jim. “{Boss… something’s not right and I-}”

“{Of course something isn’t right here,}” Jim snarled. “{You were supposed to shoot him. Instead I find him dancing merrily in the ballroom. He is a decent dancer.}”

“{I am an _excellent_ dancer,}” Kulibin said.

“{I killed the person that I was supposed to kill,}” Sebastian said levelly. “{In a nice spot between two parked cars. An hour ago.}” 

“{That was a divine waltz…}” Jim sighed. The conversation was getting hard to follow.

Kulibin continued, “{But I must insist that you let me go. I am not the person you want to kill.}”

Jim frowned, sat up a bit more, then quickly moved to sit in Kulibin’s lap, straddling the man’s hips. He caressed the “V” mask. “{She said you were an excellent kisser.}” Jim contemplatively eyed him and Moran’s pistol just mere inches from his head. Kulibin was trembling just slightly even though he tried to sound calm. Jim’s head was still spinning. There were too many things that no longer made sense.

After a moment, he pulled Kulibin’s mask up just enough to reveal his lips. “{Let’s find out about the kiss, shall we…}” He lifted his own mask just as much, lowered his lips to Kulibin’s and slowly kissed him. He felt the surprised shudder echo through the man’s body. Jim liked that. He liked surprising others. Kulibin’s hands rose and gripped Jim’s arms. He seemed to melt into the kiss. 

Jim was enthralled. This was a kiss of innocence, not one of seduction or lust. It was a needy, desperate kiss but it was also sweet and delightful. Jim deepened the kiss even more and led Kulibin through it, their tongues soon exploring every inch of the other’s mouth, but still Jim sensed an underlying innocence.

Slowly they pulled apart and Kulibin sighed both contentedly and fearfully. Out of the corner of his eye, Jim noticed that Sebastian had put the gun away and was doing something that he couldn’t figure out. Sebastian was competent; it was probably important so, he wasn’t going to worry. Jim decided to focus on more pleasant things. “{Very interesting, Mr. Kulibin,}” he said while watching the man inhale and exhale. He wished his head would stop spinning. “{One would almost think that you’d never kissed anyone before.}”

Kulibin inhaled sharply and then seemed to force himself to exhale slowly. “{I am not this Kulibin person,}” he said softly. “{My name is Mycroft Holmes.}” Jim gasped and flung himself off the man’s lap. “{The kiss was lovely though. My first…}”

The name Mycroft Holmes reverberated frighteningly through Jim’s head. He yanked the man’s mask off and, upon seeing confirmation that it was, indeed, Mycroft Holmes, pushed himself against the car door in an attempt to get far away. Mycroft Holmes was dangerous and had hurt him.

Sebastian quickly drove the needle of a syringe into the man’s shoulder and injected the contents. As Mycroft’s head fell backward, Sebastian turned to Jim, who looked like he’d seen a ghost. “I don’t suppose you want to explain this,” he asked and then eyed the unconscious man. Jim couldn’t hide his shock or utter a single word. “But good job, boss, you kissed the _Iceman_. That’s priceless.”

*~*~*


	3. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the adventures at the embassy ball, Jim and Sebastian talk early the following morning.

Surrounded by warmth, silky soft sheets, the scent of Versace, and strong arms, Jim slowly awoke even though he didn't want to open his eyes or come any further into consciousness. Keeping his eyes shut, he purred into Sebastian's chest. "Tigerrrrrr…"

"Are you awake, _Jimmy_ , feeling better?" Sebastian asked.

Jim scrunched his eyes shut. Jimmy. That did not bode well. He hated being called Jimmy. Sebastian only used that word when Jim had done something that wasn't to his liking, something had gone massively wrong during a mission, or both. "What happened?" he asked softly.

"Where shall I start?"

"That bad?"

"You tell me, boss," Sebastian said. "I know what happened at my end and it went off just fine. No problems at all." 

Jim smiled. At least Sebastian didn't sound angry or annoyed. "That's good. So, Kubilin is well and dead."

"He came to a sticky end." Sebastian held Jim a little tighter. "I also texted the client. There are about thirty messages, quite possibly more now, from the man on your phone."

"Fantastic," Jim grumbled. "He's next. And thank you, Seb."

"You're welcome," Sebastian said. "But, uuuuh, what happened to you. I could hazard a few guesses but the whole situation doesn't quite make sense."

Jim tried to remember the events after they'd arrived at the ball and to his dismay, his recall was not clear and rather disjointed. "I..." He growled with frustration as the realization of what had probably happened to him. "I may need to kill someone."

"How much do you remember?"

"Not much after we got there," Jim admitted. "It's all fuzzy and parts are missing. I know there were pastries with gold leaf on them. They were excellent."

"Never met a pastry you didn't like," Sebastian teased.

Jim snorted and then continued, "I remember dancing, and being relaxed. I think I started to lose focus somewhere in there but it may have actually begun sooner. It was like having tunnel vision of the mind. Why don't you fill me in and I'll see if I can bring up more...?"

"Well, let's see," Sebastian began. "We went to the embassy because you needed to talk to someone."

"Nikolai."

"Nikolai. Whatever. And you insisted that you didn't want me with you because Viktor doesn't need security?"

"We had a case. You needed to shoot someone. Viktor is a bookkeeper who does not need a bodyguard. It would have looked strange and someone would have noticed."

"I agree but just going in there alone was not the best idea," Sebastian argued.

"It was supposed to be a _secure_ embassy party," Jim countered and then growled again. The entire situation was frustrating him.

"Yes, it was and I do understand your reasoning," Sebastian conceded. "We'll analyze it later, after you have time to figure things out." Jim sighed softly but Seb continued, "I killed Kulibin fairly early on in the evening. It's sort of in the news."

"What do you mean _sort of_?" Jim felt a headache starting.

"It's a bit of a long story and I'll explain in a minute," Sebastian continued. "After the hit, I went back to the car with Ryusei and waited for you."

"Ryusei was here because he knows St. Petersburg and I didn't want a local for this," Jim said almost to himself. "Sorry, just going over everything in my head to sort things out. I like him. He's a good driver."

"He is." Sebastian kissed the top of Jim's head. 

"Go on."

"So, after a while, I was actually thinking that I needed to go in there and look for you but then you walked out the embassy door with someone at knifepoint. We get everyone in the car but you were out of it." Jim glared at him. "For you, that is. Compared to most people, you were still ten times more competent."

As Sebastian spoke, images had started flashing across his mind. He suddenly remembered the kiss and gasped. Jim Moriarty, no matter which alias he was using, never kissed random strangers. Ever. Drugged. The thought made him a bit sick, even if he remembered the kiss being quite nice. "I kissed him."

Sebastian chuckled. "You did but only after talking entirely too much about the case."

Jim's blood froze. He hadn't. He couldn't have. No. He remembered talking a lot. Definitely drugged. "Bloody hell."

"Mm hmm." Sebastian sighed. "I tranqed him right after your kiss but he still heard about the hit." Jim groaned. He couldn't exactly remember what he'd said but any talking in front of anyone was bad. Very bad. 

"I don't think you realized who he was," Sebastian continued. "You thought he was Kulibin, but I'd already killed Kulibin, and while there are physical similarities, you should have been able to tell the difference."

Jim groaned and hoped that Sebastian had already created a happy ending for the situation. "I don't remember talking about the case," he mumbled. It was now becoming painfully obvious that he truly had been drugged. Later that day, he'd have to pick every detail apart and then serve up some payback.

"Yeah, so we have this guy in the car, and you pretty much admit that we killed someone, and then you kiss him." Jim pulled the covers over his head and groaned again. Sebastian was taking entirely too long to get to the much-needed happy ending. "Oh, no, _Jimmy_ , it gets better. Do you remember who said person is?"

"Noooooo…" Jim mumbled into Sebastian's chest while shaking his head.

"Take a deep breath."

Jim shuddered. "I have a very bad feeling about this. I don't think I want to know…" 

"Well, Mr. Viktor-Doesn't-Need-A-Bodyguard, that was Mycroft Holmes."

Jim pulled the covers down and bolted up to sitting. "What?!" he shrieked and felt himself start trembling at mention of _that man_. He forced himself to calm down. Panic wouldn't help him think clearly. 

"You pretty much kidnapped, then explained the entire case to, and then kissed the daylights out of _Mycroft Holmes_." 

Jim looked aghast and like he really didn't want to believe Sebastian. "No," he said and used the tone of voice that he used when he was determined to make something happen. "No! I disbelieve."

"That just means you don't get a save," Sebastian said, referencing D&D. "And I saved the video from the car."

Jim fell back down on the bed and felt his stomach churn. "No," he muttered. "It can't be."

"I also made a backup so I can blackmail you if you get too sassy," Sebastian teased.

"I hate you."

"No, you adore me," Sebastian said flatly.

"I do adore you," Jim admitted. "Tell me you fixed it. Tell me you fixed this entire sodding mess."

"I fixed it," Sebastian said quickly and smiled broadly.

Jim kissed him. "You better not be lying to me. _How_ did you fix it?"

"Well, as I said, I drugged Mycroft Holmes before you could give anymore away," Sebastian said. "I don't think he knows who you are. You stuck to speaking Russian while he was awake and you stayed in character."

"Good…"

"Once you found out who he was, you got a bit frenetic and switched back to English and Gaelic, but he was more than unconscious by then."

"Good…?"

"You're incredibly cute without a filter."

"Piss off."

Sebastian chuckled. "When we got back here, I made you drink some electrolytes, and tucked you in." Jim nodded. "I found the shot glass that you had in your pocket and assumed it had something to do with what happened to you."

Jim tried to remember that and why he would have taken the shot glass but nothing came to him. He guessed that he'd still had his wits about him and it had seemed important. "I don't remember any of that right now." 

"So, I sent the glass to the lab and texted the client that the job was done but we already discussed that."

"I assume Kulibin's body had been found by then?"

"No, but, even more fun happened at the embassy after we left."

Jim's eyes widened with dismay. He supposed the evening could be described as a comedy of errors and he'd probably be laughing merrily if it had happened to _someone else_. Instead, it seemed to be an exponentially increasing nightmare that he would have to untangle very soon. "Do tell."

"Seems a couple of gunmen shot up a meeting room before embassy security took them out."

"What?!"

"Yeah. Two gunmen, eastern European nationality, possibly extremists is my guess," Sebastian said. "Seventeen confirmed casualties as of several hours ago. It's a mess. They found Kulibin and are trying to link the two as of right now."

"Was his identity confirmed?" Jim asked.

"Yes, fairly quickly after they found the body."

"Thank goodness for that." Jim sighed. That was the first bit of good news that had come out Sebastian. If Kulibin's death was tied to this other incident, then no one would be looking at it too closely. One less thing to worry about except that he needed to look into the new incident. Who had been killed? Why? Who was involved? Ugh. Headache.

"Do you want something to eat?"

"No, not yet," Jim said and slowly sat back up. "I need to sort things out. On many levels."

Sebastian also sat up. "Do you want me to take care of Holmes? You know, before you think about it too much and come up with some unnecessary brilliance?"

"That would be the sensible thing to do," Jim said and, again, thought back to the kiss. "But sensible is usually booooring."

"And it's not you."

"No, no, it's not," Jim said and sighed. "Could I trouble you for some tea? I'm going to sit at the computer for a while."

"I'll get a pot ready and then maybe I'll rest for a bit," Sebastian said. Jim nodded. He guessed Sebastian hadn't gotten any sleep. "You _will_ wake me up if you decide to go talk to Holmes." 

Jim smirked. "Viktor doesn't need a bodyguard." Sebastian growled. 

*~*~*

Jim silently walked into the secure room and shut the door behind him. Sebastian was resting and Jim wasn't about to bother the man when the secure room was more than safe. He pulled a chair up to the bed and sat down. Mycroft was still unconscious. His feet were chained to the bottom corners of the bed and his hands were secured over his head. Jim checked the restraints absentmindedly but he already knew how strong they were. Mycroft was also thoroughly blindfolded. 

Jim peeked underneath the sheets and blankets. Nude. He took a deep breath and decided that he really hadn't wanted to know that. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and then exhaled slowly. So far the panic stayed at bay. Jim had taken a double dose of his anxiety medicine before coming in to the room to see his nemesis. 

After Sebastian had made him a pot of tea, he'd gone to rest and Jim had taken a quick shower while trying to clear his head and remember what had happened. He felt he recalled the general timeline of the evening and only small pieces and details were missing. Nikolai had to have been the one to drug him but there had to be some government or corporate involvement because Jim remembered watching the man pour the drinks out of the new bottle. It required further investigation but could wait a few hours. Afterward, he'd made himself a sandwich and spent almost an hour making inquiries about the embassy attack.

He'd been able to determine that certain governments had been using the embassy party as a cover for a high-level meeting. The British, French, Belgian, and German visiting delegations had been killed and there didn't seem to be an obvious answer at the moment. It had been a high-level assassination although, from the few people he'd managed to speak with or email, Jim couldn't determine anything more detailed or specific. Frustrating.

Opening his eyes and pulling out his pocket knife, Jim wondered if Mycroft had been headed to that meeting. He vaguely recalled mention of a meeting. Wouldn't it be ironic if he'd actually saved Mycroft's life? Disgusting. Jim stared at the man. His tormentor. Jim pulled the covers back to reveal Mycroft's torso and set the blade on his shoulder. It would be so easy to kill him at the moment. Or carve him up. No one could blame him for returning just a few of the small favors he'd endured.

Jim dragged the blade up Mycroft's arm without cutting. He didn't know why. He supposed that he didn't want Mycroft to miss out on the fun or that it wouldn't be sporting to cut up an unconscious victim. Shaking his head, he decided that it was probably one of those two reasons or that he was still drugged instead of, perhaps, it being the simple fact that Jim didn't like unnecessary torture. He sighed and dragged the blade back down Mycroft's arm then across his clavicle, and up his neck. The jugular was so close. Jim licked his lips

At that moment Mycroft started shaking. Jim's eyes widened and he pulled the knife away. It certainly wouldn't do to kill him by accident. Mycroft started gasping for breath and struggling. "Mycroft…?" Jim whispered. There was no reply. Jim's mouth fell open. Mycroft Holmes was having a panic attack and probably couldn't wake from it because of the sedative. Horror filled Jim. Followed by shock. He had panic attacks. They were dreadful beyond belief and usually left Jim unnerved for hours. He couldn't imagine this.

"Why?" Jim murmured to himself. Mycroft Holmes shouldn't be having panic attacks. His life was perfect. As Jim watched the panic attack continue, he was filled with revulsion and helplessness, much as when he had a bad panic attack. 

"Help me!" Mycroft suddenly screamed.

*~*~*


	4. Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has a panic attack and Sherlock is brought in to help run MI5 in Mycroft's absence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: fairly vivid description of a panic attack in the first five paragraphs of this chapter.

The sound of the ocean crashing on the rocks in the distance terrified Mycroft as much as being in the heat, surrounded by all the bees, the flowers, the neighbor's dog barking, everything in their summer home. Water dripped from the kitchen sink and thundered through his head. Nothing Mycroft could do stopped the sound. He couldn't escape it. Drip. Drip.

He tried to run but couldn't move. Drip. He tried to breathe but couldn't get enough air. Gasping desperately, he felt his lungs burning and the drops of water now fell on his face. His head hurt; it was pounding. Drip. Drip. The flowers smelled sickeningly sweet. It felt as though his hair was being ripped out and his head was being slammed into the floor. The water continued dripping. Nothing could make it stop. He couldn't quite reach the faucet and the noise was getting louder. Drip.

The sound of a cotton sheet tearing shattered through the noise and Mycroft felt his head explode. And then more dripping. He screamed and then had a moment of ghostly silence until a drop of water fell out of the faucet and onto him. Again. And then again. Drip. He struggled and the more he did, the more pain flared through his body. Feeling something in his mouth, he tried to shake his head but his mouth opened and the ocean poured in. Drip. He couldn't breathe. Pain. There was nothing but pain. And dripping.

Chapman-Kolmogorov equation. Something brought that to Mycroft's mind. Drip. He knew that equation but he couldn't focus on it through the pain. And the dripping. He was choking. He couldn't breathe. Drip. There was blood on the floor. Bees were buzzing everywhere. His fingers were bleeding and he couldn't get up. Drip. The ocean was getting louder and the dripping faucet was tearing him apart. But the equation was perfect. Probability distributions were difficult to explain. Drip.

Ishimori. That was an equation as well. Mycroft remembered disliking it intensely. Drip. He still couldn't breathe but the complex mathematical formulations were becoming clearer. Drip. Drip. Drip. The integers and the partial differentials fell into place. Mycroft was burning but he couldn't see the fire. Drip. He was choking and trapped and there was no release. Only death. And dripping.

Mycroft screamed and the sound woke him fully. He started gasping for breath. Nothing made sense. He couldn't see and couldn't move. There was a weight on top of him. Someone was gently rubbing his arms and one side but he still couldn't breathe and his mind couldn't make sense of anything.

"Take a deep breath, Mr. Holmes," a voice said in English but with a very heavy Russian- Moscow accent. The dripping had stopped but Mycroft felt as though he couldn't breathe. His body started trembling violently. He was going to die.

"I can't," Mycroft gasped. "Can't breathe." He struggled against the restraints and the other man's hands tried to soothe him. The man shifted and that felt immediately better but left Mycroft feeling untethered and frightened, engulfed by panic. He whimpered in between frantic gasps.

"What do you need?" the voice asked. 

Mycroft realized that he couldn't place the accent. It was London, or India. Confusing. He struggled to regain control of his breathing. "I need-" he gasped. "To move." He fought against the restraints even though a part of him realized the futility. "Please."

"Hold on," the voice said and then gently rolled off of him. "Don't take the blindfold off. That is critical. Understand?" 

Resisting the urge to scream at the loss of contact, Mycroft tried to nod. He felt as though he were falling. He whimpered and let out a choked gasp, "Noooooo…" 

"Shhhhh..." the man said as he removed the restraints. Mycroft started moving each limb as soon as it was free. The movement brought sensory input and control. Once his limbs were free, the man helped him sit up. "Are you dizzy, Mr. Holmes?" Mycroft shook his head slowly and wrapped his arms around himself. He was still trembling noticeably. The man sat down next to him and pulled him close. It felt nice, and calming.

"May I get up and walk?" Mycroft asked. "Walking… helps."

The man didn't reply but stood and helped him up. "Don't do anything stupid," he said and wrapped an arm around Mycroft's waist before starting to lead him.

The walking felt good but the panic still threatened to overwhelm him and he shuddered while fighting for control. He whimpered and again brought his arms around himself. The man somehow managed to walk with him while continuing to rub his waist and arm. "You need control," the man said. "And focus."

Mycroft nodded. "Yes," he gasped and then another shudder wracked his body. He whimpered again.

"We'll just keep walking," the man said. Slowly more and more control returned. Mycroft noticed that they turned frequently so they couldn't be in abnormally long hallways or rooms. He also determined that the way the man held him left him little room to try anything; the man would be able to feel subtle muscle contractions and weight shifts and react. Clever. Not that Mycroft could do anything. He couldn't recall ever having a panic attack as horrible as this one and then being so debilitated afterward.

At some point Mycroft was allowed to use the bathroom and then they made their way back to the bed. They both sat on the bed and leaned back against a wall. The panic had subsided but Mycroft still felt shaken and weak. Even though he knew that he shouldn't, he curled into his captor. "You're taking an awful lot of chances," he blurted out and then immediately regretted it.

"I get them as well, Mr. Holmes," the man replied quietly. "They're pretty awful. I don't wish them on anyone." That was not the answer Mycroft had expected and he turned his head toward the man. He also found the man's voice soothing and borderline sensual. Clearly a sign of how thrown off balance he was.

Mycroft nodded and then leaned his head on the man's shoulder. "I've never had one this bad," he said. "I feel like I'm someone else and I can't think." The man held him a little tighter and Mycroft wanted to melt. "I can't get my thoughts to line up and follow."

The man chuckled. "Don't worry. You just need to rest now. We'll sort things out later." Those words reassured Mycroft and he found himself falling into a calm sleep.

*~*~*

"Try to be polite, Sherlock," John suggested as the two walked down the corridor toward Mycroft's office. "We're three hours late."

"I'm never polite," Sherlock snapped back. He was in a foul mood and didn't want to hear anything positive with regard to his brother. "Especially when Mycroft demands my presence and won't take no for an answer." He huffed indignantly. "He probably has some stupid case that he thinks is interesting and needs someone to do the legwork."

John pursed his lips and jammed his hands into his coat pockets. "I think Mycroft's cases are interesting." Sherlock sighed loudly with exasperation and rolled his eyes. "They're not bad. You just don't like them because they're from Mycroft."

"And what, exactly, is your point?" Sherlock grit out as they reached the double doors to Mycroft's office. Without stopping, Sherlock flung them open and marched in without preamble. "This better be good, Mycroft. I've just about had it with you."

Anthea and Lady Smallwood looked up. Both were behind Mycroft's desk. Sherlock eyed them suspiciously. This didn't bode well. Lady Smallwood was sitting in Mycroft's chair and Anthea was standing behind her. Both seemed tired. Sherlock took a deep breath. He didn't care for Lady Smallwood or her condescending attitude at all. "I've come to see my brother," he said slowly as though he were speaking to a young child. "It seems he has summoned me."

Lady Smallwood smiled thinly. "I'm the one that sent those messages. I used your brother's computer in the hopes that it would reach you sooner," she said. "I'm sorry if it came across as summoning, to you."

Sherlock grimaced. He really didn't care for the woman. Lady Smallwood could destroy someone with just a few words couched in an apology. "I, obviously, had no idea it could have been anyone other than my brother," he replied tersely. She was intolerable and he certainly wasn't going to let her walk all over him.

"We're sorry," John interjected. Sherlock groaned. "We were in the middle of a case and couldn't get away any sooner. It was a rather… convoluted… mess."

"John," Sherlock warned.

"I mean we didn't even have time for breakfast, really," John continued. "We got here as soon as we could and now we can give you our full attention. Our fullest attention."

Lady Smallwood smiled but didn't appear relieved. "Thank you, John," she said. "I do understand." Sherlock growled softly and skewered the woman with a deadly stare. She took a sip of water and a deep breath before she continued. "As you probably know, Mycroft was attending a meeting at the German embassy in St. Petersburg."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock said.

"I'll get to the point," Lady Smallwood snapped back. "There was an incident. Twenty three people are dead. Your brother is missing and, at this point, presumed dead." Sherlock paled and his jaw fell open. "His body hasn't been found so nothing can be confirmed but it doesn't look good. All those unaccounted for have only been turning up dead."

Sherlock shook his head to clear his thoughts. "What do you mean?"

Lady Smallwood stared at him pointedly. "What part couldn't you keep up with?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and all the pieces fell into place. He resisted the urge to reach across the desk and strangle the woman. "Why was my brother out of the country? He is not only MI5 but he's also not a field agent," he asked angrily while he tamped down some emotion that he refused to admit was uncertainty or fear. Or concern.

"That answer is somewhat complicated," Lady Smallwood replied in a slightly gentler tone. "He was deemed to be the best person to handle the negotiations. It was an _embassy_ and supposed to be secure but, in hindsight, more precautions should have been taken."

Sherlock stared at her as though she were speaking in a different language. "In hindsight? More precautions? What level of incompetence is this?"

"I wasn't part of the decision so I can't explain the logic behind it," Lady Smallwood said. "It does seem mind-boggling and someone will be looking into it and the entire process but right now we have two priorities."

Sherlock ignored her. "You said it wasn't confirmed."

"No, it's not, because neither he nor his body have been found," she explained and then sighed heavily. "He was confirmed by multiple sources as being in attendance at the embassy and then he was confirmed to have been in attendance at the meeting. The entire room was attacked and all the attendees are dead."

"You've got some interesting contradictions going on there," Sherlock murmured. "Are you keeping up with all of them?"

"Yes," Lady Smallwood said, seemingly ignoring his last jibe. "It was confirmed that he was in the meeting by the ambassador and our liaison who were not in that meeting room. No one in that room survived so, there are no eyewitnesses to Mycroft actually being in there. We're at a loss. The cameras were disabled and Mycroft's trackers, because, at least, he did have those, are not functioning."

"That would lead me to believe that he's not dead," Sherlock noted.

Lady Smallwood nodded. "Agreed, but then we should have heard something. There's been no chatter anywhere according to MI6 and and they have been working nonstop on this since last night. There aren't even whispers. At this point only a handful of people are unaccounted for."

"Lovely," John said after having been silent. "How do you people even get away with this? How do you send someone who isn't trained for this sort of thing into that sort of a situation and expect the rest of us to have faith in you?"

Everyone in the room was silent. "What do you want me to do?" Sherlock eventually asked. 

"We've been trying to make heads or tails out of Mycroft's computer system," Anthea answered. "All of MI5's operations are in jeopardy if we can't run the department effectively. I know about ten percent and have figured out a bit more but he's leagues ahead of me. Ahead of all of us. It's going to take us too long to work through it."

"We're hoping you can get in here," Lady Smallwood said and indicated Mycroft's computer. "Figure out his system, help us lock it down in case someone has him and gets information from him, and then get it so that Anthea can take care of things until…" She paused and looked away.

"Until he's found," Sherlock said quietly. "Given all this, why is Mycroft _ever_ let out of this office?" Both women looked at him sadly. "I suppose that topic of conversation gets us nowhere at the moment. Let me see what I can do."

Lady Smallwood stood and stepped aside. "I'll be in my office if you need me. The other thing we want you to do or rather, we first need to ask you and then see if there's anything to be done, is if you and Mycroft had any personal emails or phone numbers where he might try to get information to you in an emergency?"

"I'll check those," Sherlock said evenly. As soon as both women left, John looked at him questioningly. Sherlock sat down in Mycroft's chair and John put a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock lowered his head. "I don't understand," he whispered.

"Mycroft always seemed so invulnerable."

"No," Sherlock said because he didn't want to think about the fact that there was a good chance that Mycroft was gone. "I meant how did this happen and why is no one following up on the pieces of data that don't fit. Like the trackers. Or the cameras."

"Can you work on that from here?" John asked.

"I would hope their people already pored over that but considering everything that we've heard so far, competency escaped out of some window a while back. No wonder Mycroft is always cross."

"Are you going to be okay?"

"I'm fine, John, just fine," Sherlock said while clamping down once more on emotions that he refused to acknowledge. "I just need to fix this." He smiled sadly at the thought of who that sounded like.

*~*~*


	5. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim deals with the aftermath of Mycroft's panic attack and his own history with the man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: memories of torture

**Memories**

Jim looked up when he heard movement coming from the master bedroom. He scrunched his eyes shut and then wiped the moisture from them before looking back down at his laptop. He’d been following up on the fracas at the embassy as well as thoroughly delving into Nikolai Brouchkov’s background. But, more importantly, he was fending off a panic attack of his own and trying to forget _the kiss_. He was still seated on the bed with his back to the wall in the secure room and Mycroft Holmes, still blindfolded and soundly asleep, was curled around his lower body with arms around his hips.

Jim’s hands trembled a little when he typed and he repeatedly fought down the illogical emotions that were associated with Mycroft Holmes and reliving what he’d gone through over and over. Jim had refused to give them details about the terrorist network unless he was given information about Sherlock. Memories of his interrogation at Mycroft’s hands kept trying to surface. Beatings. Starvation. Pain. Dehydration. Drugs. More pain. Sensory deprivation. Waterboarding. Overwhelming pain. Electricity. Stress positions. Nothing but pain and horror. They’d done everything.

Eventually they’d had to admit defeat and Mycroft Holmes had been forced to give him what he wanted. The sad irony was, Jim had belatedly noted to himself, that by the time the British government had conceded, Jim had no longer wanted the stories. He’d completely lost interest in Sherlock. All he wanted to do was win, get out, and then destroy both Holmes brothers. Sometime during the interrogation, his love for Sherlock had dissipated and been replaced with a twisted desire for revenge combined with a fascination and loathing for the elder Holmes.

And now, after a bizarre series of events, which still boggled his mind, every terrorizing incident was coming to the forefront of his mind and turning him into a useless criminal mastermind. Each memory threatened to overwhelm him and he fought it down but there was always a new one waiting to come up. They merged with memories from even deeper in his past that were just as horrific. Jim took a slow breath. He needed to stay in control and sort through the current mess.

Even as he fought down all the terrorizing memories, the ones he could cope with and the ones that triggered older demons, Jim couldn’t help but wonder what would cause Mycroft, the man with a perfect life, the man that was always in complete control, to have fears or nightmares. Somehow the Iceman was losing his supervillain qualities. Something was causing Mycroft to have panic attacks that were _worse than his_. Despite the horrors that he’d been through and the revenge that he so desperately wanted, he still couldn’t resist caring for someone who was experiencing something similar. 

Jim closed his eyes and leaned his head back. A few tears made their way out of his eyes before his will took control again. Jim shuddered and his movement caused Mycroft to whimper. His hand reflexively caressed the sleeping man’s head. “I’m so fucked,” he muttered to himself. 

During the interrogation, he’d admired Mycroft’s brilliance and persistence while at the same time despising the inhumanity he’d suffered. There seemed to be no end to the depravity that the British government was willing to inflict on other human beings to get what it wanted. His victory had been truly sweet but the appalling cost had only become apparent weeks, and months later. Jim sighed. He still appreciated Mycroft’s intelligence in a cool, detached way but he’d been unable to release all the hooks that had dug their way into him.

Hearing Seb walk to the kitchen, Jim inhaled deeply and then exhaled. He couldn’t let his second see him like this. Seb would know regardless. Using the other hand, he wiped his eyes and forced his attention back to the computer. He heard Seb making tea, emptying the dishwasher, and starting a load of laundry. Jim smiled. Sebastian was an angel. After a few minutes he heard familiar footsteps approaching the secure room. Jim glued his eyes to the computer screen.

When the door opened, he didn’t look up but asked, “Did you rest?”

“Yeah,” Sebastian replied and then approached. “What the everlasting fuck, boss?”

“Don’t ask,” Jim muttered and then looked up. In that instant he knew that Sebastian had just figured everything out. He shook his head with denial. Sebastian handed him a mug of tea. Jim gratefully took it. It was still a bit too warm to drink.

Sebastian drew a pistol from the waistband of his khakis and pointed it at Mycroft. “Kindest thing.”

“No.”

“Boss.”

“Don’t.”

“Loose ends, Jimmy.”

Jim shuddered again and fought down another memory. He was restrained and struggled for air. He closed his eyes. They were slamming him against the wall. His stepfather was slamming him into the wall. It kept alternating between the two and Jim felt his control slipping. The Mycroft in his mind was sneering smugly and Jim started trembling. Sebastian took the mug from him. “Thank you,” he murmured and then opened his eyes. The other man had his mug but still had the gun trained on Mycroft. “The paragon of domestic bliss…”

Sebastian smirked. “I bet I could do it and not spill a drop.”

“No.”

Sebastian tucked the gun away and then sat on the other side of Jim. As the mattress sunk down, Mycroft whimpered again and his arms tightened reflexively around Jim. Sebastian arched an eyebrow and handed Jim back his mug. “I repeat my earlier what the fuck, but let’s add a side of potatoes, as the Italians like to say,” he said dryly.

A smile crept across Jim’s lips and his entire body sagged against Sebastian. “What would I do without you?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

“No.”

“Can I kill him _now_?” 

“No,” Jim said and took a sip of his tea. Still hot but drinkable. “I can’t. I don’t know why, exactly, precisely, but I can’t. Not yet, anyways.”

Sebastian nodded. “Do you want to talk about anything?” Jim shook his head and frowned. “Are you, at least, getting some stuff out?”

“No,” Jim said. Even though he knew that Sebastian knew he was lying, he wouldn't admit to weakness. Ever. And Sebastian knew that as well and it only made Jim adore the man even more. “Everything’s going to be fine. I’m probably still a bit addled from whatever I got drugged with.”

Sebastian nodded and then looked at Mycroft pointedly. “Are you sure? I mean the magnitude of _this_ loose end…”

“Daddy will take care of it,” Jim said with a bit of his usual swagger. “Maybe you could work on something as a side and I’ll fix omelets in a bit.”

“I can do that,” Sebastian replied. “Holler if you need me.”

Jim nodded. “{Yes, thank you, Sergei.}” Sebastian nodded with understanding and then left. Jim closed his eyes, absentmindedly ran his fingers through Mycroft’s hair, and took a sip of tea. He felt the memories start to rise once more. They had never been as vivid, powerful, or relentless as they were now. Jim felt fear but he refused to cower. He had never shown any fear before and this time it wasn’t even real, just memories. Perhaps now was the time to face them. Leaning to one side, he set the mug down on the floor, closed the laptop, and sunk into the first memory that arose to engulf him. Tears fell from his eyes.

*~*~*


	6. Breakfast at Viktor's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim continues to delay dealing with loose ends while Mycroft learns of the attack at the embassy.

**Breakfast at Viktor's**

For the first time in what felt like forever, Mycroft awoke feeling safe and comforted. He snuggled into the warm body that he was wrapped around and sighed. Warm body. The sudden thought that he shouldn't be wrapped around _any_ warm body jolted him awake and he took stock. Unrestrained. Blindfolded. 

His hands instinctively went to his eyes to remove the blindfold but they were quickly grabbed. "No,'" a voice said. "Don't take the blindfold off." Heavy Russian accent. Memories returned at a lightning pace and deductions fell into place. Mycroft stilled and lowered his arms. He knew he was in grave danger and that caused the strangest juxtaposition with how wonderfully relaxed he felt.

"Yes, I understand," he whispered. The man helped him sit up and made sure the blindfold was secure. The bed smelled clean and fresh; it must be the guest room. The man was wearing a very sensual cologne. Christian Dior Ambre Nuit: grapefruit, orange, spicy-floral Turkish rose, and pink pepper with a base of amber. It wasn't something Mycroft had ever been interested in but it worked so very well for the man that he made a mental note to investigate it later.

"Do you need the bathroom?"

"Yes, please," Mycroft said. The man helped him stand and Mycroft was again shocked at how weak he felt. The other man was small, almost petite, but strong enough to hold him up. That was comforting, frighteningly so. Mycroft knew that he shouldn't relax but he did as they walked toward the bathroom. He remembered doing this immediately after his panic attack. The man had helped him that time as well. "What is your name?" he finally asked.

"It's probably best if I don't tell you," the man replied.

Mycroft sighed. "This is a very bizarre and complicated situation," he said. "I don't think a first name will matter much regardless of what end we reach."

He felt the other man nod. "True. It's Viktor, Viktor with a K."

"Viktor," Mycroft repeated. "Thank you. That helps me to focus a little when so much is murky."

"I understand," Viktor said and Mycroft got the feeling that the man truly did. Viktor helped him with the bathroom and then led him to another room where he was met by the smell of garlic, and rosemary. Mycroft hadn't realized how truly hungry he was. He sighed.

"Sergei made potatoes," Viktor said. "I'm going to put you in a chair and then I'll cook some eggs." Sergei moved to assist Viktor in helping Mycroft sit. Military. Big. Strong. That's why Viktor wasn't worried. Mycroft guessed that Sergei could kill him in under five seconds. He also sensed a particular tension about Sergei. The man wanted to kill him.

"Thank you," Mycroft said although he felt the situation was becoming even more surreal. He wasn't restrained; he was being fed; and he wasn't being hurt. He'd been cared for during what had to have been the worst panic attack of his life. And his inability to control everything or anything at all left him feeling scarily untethered.

"I admit to being completely baffled by these circumstances," Mycroft began and then took a deep breath.

"You're not quite the only one," Viktor said. "Let's not talk about it now though. Breakfast first. Then we have a lot to figure out. I'm hungry and we can try to put off the circumstances for a bit longer." Mycroft nodded. After a few moments during which Mycroft heard sounds of cooking, Viktor asked, "Do you want another anxiety pill?"

Mycroft vaguely remembered being given something during his panic attack. "You gave me one of those earlier?"

"Yes," Viktor answered. "It's a low dose. Five milligrams of lorazepam."

"Thank you," Mycroft said. "I think that would be helpful although I don't plan on having another one."

Viktor chuckled dryly. "I don't _plan_ on having them at all but..." 

Mycroft heard a bottle of pills being thrown and caught and then Sergei handed him one followed by a mug of tea. Earl Grey. Mycroft's favorite. He sighed, took the pill, and then sipped the tea. "Why do you get them?" he asked.

"We can talk about that later as well," Viktor said. Mycroft decided that was probably for the best. He suddenly wished he'd had field training. In theory, he should be trying to ingratiate himself with the enemy, probing for information, and working on an escape strategy. Instead, breakfast sounded lovely.

He continued to hear the sounds of cooking and then the oven door being opened, pans being pulled out, and scraping, obviously portions being made. The food smelled very good and Mycroft hoped it would settle everyone and they could come to a _sensible_ solution that didn't involve his being on the receiving end of terminal violence. When a plate was set in front of him, he inhaled deeply and started identifying the ingredients.

Viktor chuckled. "I can tell you what everything is," the man said as though he knew exactly what Mycroft had been doing. He wondered if he was that easy to read under the circumstances or if Viktor was good at it. Probably a bit of both. "It's an French omelet with shiitake mushrooms and Gruyere cheese."

"I can smell the chives and tarragon," Mycroft noted.

"It wouldn't be a proper French omelet without them."

Mycroft agreed. "Of course." Talking about food calmed him. Viktor was right. Breakfast was allowing them to ignore the circumstances for a bit and that would probably prove helpful.

"Even though I was hoping for cinnamon pancakes, we have oven roasted potatoes," Viktor continued. "I love everything cinnamon and ginger but no luck today, it seems." Mycroft imagined the man glaring at Sergei. He felt a utensil sliding into his hand. When he closed his fingers around the handle, Viktor wrapped his hand around his fingers. Mycroft found that unbelievably intimate. Viktor then directed the fork to where everything was on the plate. 

"{You can start, but don't do anything stupid with the fork,}" Sergei said. Mycroft shuddered. He heard the threat in the warning and instead focused on the accent. Moscow. That made sense with the military background.

"{Thank you,}" Mycroft carefully tried a piece of potato. It was perfect. Crisp and flaky on the outside, moist on the inside, perfectly seasoned. He struggled a bit with the omelet but Viktor helped him. The omelet was exquisite. Probably the best he'd had in a long while. Mycroft suspected that hunger and circumstances altered his perceptions a bit but only slightly.

"So, I know that I said no business until after breakfast," Viktor said. Mycroft decided that the odd Russian accent was really quite charming. Must be the circumstances again. "But you said that you were going to a meeting. Can you tell me about that meeting?"

Mycroft tensed. "I probably shouldn't," he mumbled around a piece of potato.

"I don't want any government secrets," Viktor immediately responded. "But after you and I left the embassy, it seems that some gunmen made their way in and shot up a meeting room full of English, French, German, and Belgian emissaries. Everyone in that room died."

Mycroft's mind momentarily froze with shock and the fork fell from his hand, clattered on his plate, and dropped to the floor. He shook his head to clear his thoughts then leaned sideways in the hope of finding his fork. "{I'll get you a new one,}" Sergei said while Viktor helped him straighten back up. Even though the assistance wasn't needed, the man's touch soothed him.

"Was that the meeting that you were supposed to attend?" Viktor asked. 

"I believe so," Mycroft whispered. He couldn't quite believe what he'd just heard. "What happened?"

"They don't know much," Viktor replied then Mycroft sensed movement. "{Thank you, Sergei.}" He felt Viktor take hold of his hand, place another fork in it, and then direct him back to the plate. "No one has been able to figure out a motive and no one has disclosed the purpose of the meeting yet. It has nothing to do with me. I'm curious about the whole situation and with you here, it adds another element."

"Of course," Mycroft said. Suddenly the irony of the situation hit him. He would be dead if he hadn't been kidnapped by Viktor. That made the situation much more complicated. He also didn't know how much of this was true although Viktor didn't seem to have a reason to invent such a story. Mycroft had to admit to himself that Viktor _sounded_ genuine, and caring. That last part frightened him considering that he was Viktor's prisoner. "Are there reports on the news?"

"Mmmm… yes," Viktor said. "All of the networks are talking about it. Would you like me to turn on a specific one?"

"BBC, if you could," Mycroft said and then took another bite of food. He heard Viktor muttering something unintelligible in Russian, presumably at some sort of device and he found it adorable. He almost smiled as he took another bite.

"Stupid thing," Viktor finally grumbled in English and then the sound of a telecast was heard. Mycroft listened intently while continuing to eat. He recognized the broadcaster and estimated that it just after midday in London. After some general British news, they did an extensive report on the attack at the German embassy in St. Petersburg including all the horrific and gruesome details which chilled his blood. He had been heading to _that very meeting_ when he'd met Viktor. All his compatriots had been slaughtered. Each name he heard was like a dagger driven into his heart. Mycroft set his fork down and wrapped his arms around himself as he continued listening.

Eventually Viktor picked up his fork and fed him the remaining food. Mycroft ate numbly. He should be dead. Instead he'd had a lovely waltz with a mysterious stranger, been kidnapped at knifepoint, held at gunpoint, drugged, kissed for the first time and it had been exquisite, had the worst panic attack of his life, been comforted by his kidnapper, been shown more compassion than he experienced on a normal day, and was now eating a delicious meal. And he was still alive and unharmed. He shuddered and tried to make sense of it all.

Viktor suddenly scooted into his lap and caressed the side of his face. "We'll figure something out."

Those words and the intimacy overwhelmed Mycroft. He lowered his head onto Viktor's shoulder and started quietly trembling.

*~*~*


	7. Haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After breakfast, Mycroft and Viktor(Jim) start talking about the important issues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***TW: references to past childhood abuse and rape. The descriptions are pretty clinical but they are there.***

**Haunted**

Sebastian wrapped his arms around Jim and held the smaller man. “Are you alright?” After breakfast Sebastian had taken Mycroft to the bathroom and then restrained him on the bed and shut the door before returning to the kitchen where Jim had been cleaning up.

Jim shook his head but then looked into Sebastian’s bright blue eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Of course, you are,” Seb said quietly so that they would not be overheard. “You had a cross between a panic attack and a meltdown in there and you’re not letting me _kill him_ which is what needed to happen after the bastard tortured you. Not to mention the whole loose ends business, boss.” 

Jim buried his face in Sebastian’s chest and whispered, “I know.”

“Killing Mycroft Holmes is like a wet dream. I fantasize about it at night. Every night.”

“I can’t.”

“I know.” Sebastian sighed. “You two are well suited.” Jim pulled away and stared at him incredulously. “You are. He’s the British Government and you’re the emperor of the criminal world. You manage and control very similar things in probably the exact same way.” Jim glared at him. “And I know you know because, even just after, you talked about him in a certain way. I can’t really explain how but you did.” Jim shook his head vehemently. “You did. And then you never followed up with any plans to destroy him.”

“Recovery and self preservation.”

“Right.” Sebastian chuckled. He truly adored “his” bundle of fiery Irish adorableness and madness. “Since when do you let such foolishness stop you?” Jim pouted. “And I watched you not only when you kissed him but... ever since.”

“What are you saying?” Jim muttered while quickly looking away even though he guessed that he probably couldn’t hide this from Seb.

Sebastian saw flashes of hurt appear in Jim’s eyes and he kissed the top of Jim’s head. “Don’t take it like that. I don’t mean anything bad by it. You know I adore you, probably love you, you crazy git, and I only want the best for you.”

“I know you do.”

“And we’ve both decided long ago, that I’m not it,” Sebastian stated. “I want to be, strive to be everything that I can for you, but not what I can’t.”

“I do love you, Sebastian,” Jim said sadly.

“I know, and I love you more than my own life, but we both know the limitations of that love and we’ve never lied to each other.” 

“No, we haven’t,” Jim admitted and then smiled at Sebastian. “What do you see?”

“I see you healing,” Sebastian answered. “I see this as forcing, no, not the best word, encouraging you to deal with what happened, and you facing it. I see you stronger.” Jim stood on his toes and gently kissed Sebastian’s lips. “I see you facing your demons again.” Jim smiled. “I see a door opening but I worry that we’re making a mistake with loose ends.

Jim wrapped his arms around Sebastian. “I’m being careful. Trust me.”

“We’re both still here and having a bloody fantastic time.” 

“That we are,” JIm agreed but then his mind started ticking off the things he still needed to do that didn’t involve Mycroft Holmes. “Has the lab gotten back to you yet about what was in that glass?”

“No, not yet,” Sebastian said. “I’ll follow up in a few minutes.”

“Good,” Jim said. “I’ll go see what information I can get out of the elder Holmes.”

“Loose end, boss,” Sebastian teased. “Old school, posh, uptight, stuffed shirt loose end. Let me shoot him when you’re done playing. I’ll make a rug out of him for you. It’s the safest thing to do.”

“Sebastian!”

*~*~*

Taking a deep breath, Jim entered the secure room and immediately frowned when he saw the way that Sebastian had restrained Mycroft Holmes and that the man was trembling visibly. Both feet were shackled together and attached to one of the bed posts with little play and his hands were bound behind his back. Effective, uncomfortable, and probably close to inducing another panic attack. Jim understood Sebastian’s motivations, from the obvious ones to the more sublime, but it still annoyed him.

Jim coughed softly out of courtesy even though he was sure that Mycroft had heard the door open. The man’s head turned slightly toward him and he seemed to make an effort to control his shaking. “Let me help you,” Jim murmured and moved to the bed before gently repositioning Mycroft so that he was sitting up and leaning against the wall without strain on his legs. “Sergei gets a bit enthusiastic about my safety.”

“Can’t... fault him… for that,” Mycroft said weakly. It sounded as though each word had been a struggle to get out.

Jim eyed Mycroft intently and then reached a quick decision. “I’ll be right back. There may be some tea left and I’ll see if I can get Sergei to change this a bit.” Mycroft nodded and Jim quickly strode out of the room only to almost run into Sebastian who smirked and handed him two mugs of tea. “{Sergei, could you adjust the restraints?}” he asked sweetly while glaring at the man to express his displeasure. 

Sebastian shot him a very familiar innocent look in return and then proceeded to release Mycroft’s arms. “{Thank you,}” Jim snapped. Sebastian silently blew him a kiss and left the room. “Is that better?” Jim asked Mycroft and than sat down on the bed next to him.

“Yes, thank you, Viktor,” Mycroft replied shakily. He was still trembling enough that Jim wasn’t sure he could hold the mug of tea. Shaking his head, Jim brought the mug up to Mycroft’s lips and gave him sips until he calmed down enough to hold his own tea. Once he had his mug, Mycroft immediately leaned his head on Jim’s shoulder. The position, and the companionship, were becoming altogether too familiar and too comfortable and Jim knew that should frighten him more than it did. 

“I’m… I’m sorry I... lost control before,” Mycroft continued. “And now…” He seemed to struggle with the rest of the sentence. 

Jim took one of his hands and squeezed it gently. Alarm bells started screaming in his mind that holding Mycroft ‘s hand was a very bad idea. “I understand. I don’t think I should give you another anti-anxiety med. I do have stronger meds, sedatives, but we need to talk about certain things and I also simply don’t want to give you more medications. I can and I will if you want though.”

“I’m doing better now,” Mycroft said. His voice still sounded weak but, at least, he was more coherent. “It was close but I managed not to cross _that_ line… into panic.”

“The antianxiety med probably helped.”

“Yes.”

Jim pursed his lips. “Do you want to rest a bit and I can just sit here or do you want to try and discuss matters?”

“Yes, I do think need to discuss matters _now_ ,” Mycroft said, starting to sound more like himself. “I’ll try. I have to.”

“Can you tell me why you have panic attacks?” Jim asked. “It’s not all that relevant but I’ll admit to being curious. And telling someone is supposed to help.”

“It’s something that I don’t like to discuss,” Mycroft said. That seemed like such a practiced response although Jim guessed that no one else knew about Mycroft’s panic attacks. None of his sources in MI5 or MI6 had ever disclosed anything of the sort.

“You can tell me. I’ll understand in a way that most others _can’t_.”

Mycroft nodded again and then hesitated. “Will you tell me why _you_ have them first? It will give me some time...” 

Those words saddened Jim. He heard the need, the desperation, and the loneliness in them and wondered how someone like Mycroft Holmes could end up in this state. “It’s pretty straight forward,” Jim said evenly. “I had some childhood issues, abuse, and then I ended up being tortured.” He smiled wryly when Mycroft gasped. “I thought I had worked through most of the childhood stuff fairly well but the torture was pretty bad and it all got jumbled up again.”

“Why were you tortured? Why were you allowed to live afterward?” Mycroft asked and Jim smirked. That sounded like the Mycroft Holmes he knew.

“The _mob_ tortured me,” Jim answered carefully. “But I didn’t talk and my boss was able to get me out alive.”

Mycroft nodded and seemed to want to ask something but then reconsidered. Eventually he took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Was it bad?”

“It wasn’t exactly a day at the spa... which I do enjoy, by the way,” Jim said and smirked when Mycroft almost chuckled at the remark. “There’s very little they _didn’t_ do to me.” Mycroft winced and Jim noticed his hands started trembling a bit more. “It’s fine,” Jim continued. “I ignore it as much as I can and the pills do the rest. 

He sighed and looked at Mycroft, the man who had inflicted all of that on him. The man that he had wanted to torture and then murder but now couldn’t because they really were so much alike. Something tormented Mycroft to the same extent as the memories that tore Jim to shreds altogether too frequently. “Tell me about yours.”

Mycroft lowered his head. “It’s very difficult. I don’t…” Jim had to fight the urge to caress him. He reminded himself that this was the man who had hurt him and yet, the interrogation seemed so far away. Their lives had again become intertwined in this new shared experience leaving their past interactions behind them. “What you tell me, that’s the start of a voice that won’t come back to haunt you,” Jim whispered.

“I want to believe you,” Mycroft said.

“I’m always right,” Jim quipped playfully but then added, “and especially in this case. It’s how I eventually coped with most of my childhood issues and probably how I’ll have to deal with the torture, once I actually _decide_ to deal with it.”

Mycroft nodded. “It’s ugly.”

Jim sighed. “It usually is.”

“This goes no further.”

“Promise.” 

“It started when I was seven. My brother, Sherlock, had just been born. No one paid any attention to me anymore. No one cared how smart or brilliant I was. Nothing was as adorable as Sherlock. Everything revolved around the new cooing curly haired baby.”

Jim heard the pain in Mycroft’s voice and wrapped his arms around the man’s waist, pulling him close. “That, in and of itself, is never easy.”

“No, it’s not, but it’s not the issue,” Mycroft murmured. “We had a summer home in Cornwall. The whole family would gather there for holidays.” Mycroft shuddered as he seemed to be reliving his childhood. “ _He_ was always there. Gerald. An older cousin.” 

Jim sucked in a breath, suspicious of where the conversation was going and held Mycroft as comfortingly as he could. “He did things to me, awful things,” Mycroft said. His voice became almost robotic. “The first time the faucet was dripping and that’s really all I remember. And the pain. And he would laugh at me. I usually don’t remember that during panic attacks but he did. After he hurt me. When he made me bleed. Then when I tried to tell Mummy and Father, they didn’t believe me. They told me to stop making things up. It kept happening. Over and over. I couldn’t escape him.”

“Why didn’t you have him killed? Later.” Jim asked. 

“I couldn’t. Mummy and Father never believed me and once I got older, they said they would disown me and never let me see them or little Sherlock ever again if I... continued…” Mycroft shuddered once more. 

“Continued?”

“Continued with… 'this foolishness', they called it. Lies. False accusations, attention garnering mechanisms. Continued to make up _nonsense_ ,” Mycroft felt his voice cracking and paused to pull himself together. “As I got older, I became better able to defend myself but I had to protect Sherlock. I saw how Gerald looked at him. It frightened me, horrified me. I couldn’t let that happen to my precious little brother. Somehow you remind me of him, a bit, even if I don’t know you. Sherlock was so full of smiles and joy. I couldn’t let that monster touch him or destroy him, the way he covered me with his filth.”

Jim felt anger coursing through him. And fury. The echoes were too familiar and the old rage resurfaced. He barely managed to keep his voice even. “Is he still alive?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “Once I knew Sherlock was safe at uni and couldn’t be touched, I set about having him arrested. The family stopped me again. They said they would ruin me with rumors, lies, and twisted truths if I took any action against him. I chose not to test that.”

“So, he’s pretty much gotten away with it.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said sadly. “I made it very clear to him that if he even looked at Sherlock sideways, I’d destroy him. But, if he stays away, I won’t touch him.”

“Doesn’t seem fair.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It leaves you with nothing but guilt, pain, and powerlessness,” Jim said. “It’s like acid; eats you away from the inside and you can’t do anything about it.”

Mycroft sighed. “You do understand, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“As long as my brother is safe, I choose to pay that price.” 

Jim pulled Mycroft close. “My stepfather,” he said, “did the same to me. I was five, close to the same age as you, when it started. I became a substitute punching bag, fucktoy, everything you can think of for when my mother wasn’t around or too drunk to notice him. It was hell.” Jim pressed a kiss against the side of Mycroft’s head. “It got better when I killed the bastard.”

“Did it really fix it?”

“Fixed it well enough.”

“I can’t fix mine,” Mycroft said. “But I live with the hope, with the delusion perhaps, that he’s stopped.” He sighed. “With the knowledge that he’ll never hurt Sherlock.”

*~*~*


	8. Discoveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock analyzes video from the embassy and makes some discoveries. Mycroft and Viktor continue to talk.

**Discoveries**  


"John, I need you to look at something,” Sherlock said without moving his eyes away from the video that was playing on the computer screen. There was no reply. “John?” He finally turned his head and noticed that John was no longer in the office. He frowned, stared at his tea cup, and decided that John must have gone to get him another cup- although why hadn’t he taken the empty cup- and he’d be back in a few minutes.

Twenty minutes later Sherlock called Anthea’s line. “Where’s John?”

“Hello, Sherlock,” Anthea replied. “John left an hour ago to get the two of you some late lunch.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Is there anything you need?”

“Tea.” Sherlock hung up and then stared at John’s spot on Mycroft’s sofa. Perhaps he needed to have a word with John about saying something when he left. Fiddling with his empty tea cup, he returned his attention to the video.

About ten minutes later both John and Anthea entered the office. “Sherlock, we’re back!” John said loudly.

“Mmmmm… yes, good. Did you leave?” Sherlock, at least, had the good graces to look up from the screen and smirk.

“Bloody git,” John mumbled. “I got fish and chips and some tomato soup. Is that all right?”

“Perfect,” Sherlock said. “Just set it down, I have some things I want to show you. Both of you.”

Anthea set the tray with tea down on the desk next to the food that John had brought and they both stepped behind Sherlock. “If you look here, close to the beginning of the ball,” Sherlock said and brought the video to a certain time that he’d listed on a piece of paper. “You notice the guards unlocking the room and standing by.” The blurry black and white image definitely showed that.

Sherlock moved the video to the next time he’d listed. “In between there’s video from other cameras. They still haven’t provided me the individual feeds. I’ve sent several requests. This level of incompetence is getting annoying.”

“I’ll follow up with Lady Smallwood,” Anthea said.

“It wood be rather helpful,” Sherlock grumbled. “Assuming that one can manage to muster up some competence in _her_ department.” He sighed. “So in this section we have two Germans arriving. I’ve identified them to be Manfred Sachs and Kristoff Kuehnert. Both were found deceased in the meeting room.”

Sherlock picked up the tea cup and was about to take a sip when Anthea warned him, “Might still be too warm.” Sherlock set the tea cup down with some frustration before moving the video to the next noted time. “Here we have one of the French, I believe Jean-Gabriel Chapuis, also entering the room. Confirmed dead. I was able to quickly find him in Mycroft’s system. He was a specialist in intercontinental ballistic missiles. It seems that while the superficial purpose of the meeting was vague strategic planning; it’s true purpose was missile defence systems and allocation of resources.”

“That’s why your brother went,” Anthea said quietly. “I wasn’t given the specifics but he did tell me that it was a higher level meeting than stated and where very important decisions were going to be made.”

“All the more reason _not_ to send Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped. “He could have teleconferenced in. That was a high risk meeting and a very specialized agent needed to be sent. Not my desk-bound brother.”

“Lord Pyotte made that decision,” Anthea said. “I know Mycroft wasn’t pleased but he said it was more about disruption to tea time and not having the proper kind of biscuits in Russia. Obviously, he was joking about that part.”

“He didn’t raise any concerns?” John asked.

“No,” both Anthea and Sherlock replied at the same time.

“He did not, not in the slightest,” Anthea finished.

“I’ve discovered he has two shut down modes, well three,” Sherlock said. “One is his usual one. One is his ‘vacation’ one, and another is more of a danger-lockdown mode. Mind you they are all ridiculously secure but the lockdown mode actually has more ways to access certain levels so that other people with the right access can get in if Mycroft is unavailable.” 

Sherlock took another sip of tea and then proceeded to describe the various levels in detail. Anthea nodded. After a while John interrupted, “So, uh, let’s summarize, Sherlock. Which mode did Mycroft leave it on and why?”

Sherlock paused and stared at John for a moment. “Details are important, John, but yes, I need to keep looking at the video.” Sherlock picked up one of the biscuits that Anthea had brought on the tray and took a small nibble. “He had it on vacation mode which meant he wasn’t expecting trouble. He was just as convinced as everyone else that this was a secure endeavor and there was no need for other precautions. Much as we all agree, in hindsight, that wasn’t the case, Mycroft isn’t stupid. He did his research. I can show you that if you wish, afterward, but you would probably find it redundant. He looked at everything and deemed it to be safe.”

Anthea frowned and looked as though she wanted to say something but then shook her head. 

“Yeah, Mycroft isn’t stupid,” John repeated.

“That indicates to me that this wasn’t a high-level hit,” Sherlock continued. “There were no rumblings or threats. Nothing to raise suspicions; a small scale operation and that’s what we need to look at. Who was in that room and what personal issues did they have? Who had baggage? Who was compromised? Who gains from the death of one or more people in that room?”

“You have the list of those that were supposed to attend,” Anthea said and started tapping on her blackberry. “I’ll have a thorough background check done on everyone there and their families and get that to you as soon as possible.”

“Good. That will be quite useful.” Sherlock took another sip of tea then proceeded. “By isolating the video from the one camera, I matched everyone who was confirmed dead in that room, entering that room.” He paused and stared at both Anthea and John. “Except Mycroft. Mycroft did _not_ ever walk into that room or walk down that hallway. He does not appear on that camera.”

“Then he’s still alive,” John said.

“Can you send me your list? I’ll verify it for you, second set of eyes, and then send it to Lady Smallwood,” Anthea said. Sherlock nodded. “The problem, Dr. Watson, is that several people were killed as accessories. When the attackers were moving towards the room, anyone that crossed their path. They think even the landlord of where they were staying was killed.”

“I’ll need all that information,” Sherlock interjected crisply.

“Yes, I’d just sent it to Mycroft’s email when we walked in.”

“Again, If you can get the single camera feed from the embassy, that would be helpful,” he said grimly. “I’m sure I’ve found them all but it never hurts to confirm. I’ve been scanning the rest of the feeds to see if I can find Mycroft. The fact that one idiot says that he spoke to to my brother doesn’t mean much considering that they already had him dead in that room and were planning the funeral arrangements.” Anthea winced.

“But, where is he?” John asked. “Even if he’s not a field agent, Mycroft would know to get to safety.”

“Based on what you’ve just said, the concern is that he’s been kidnapped, perhaps opportunistically,” Anthea said. “Once I submit your work Sherlock, the focus of the investigation will shift to search and recovery. I think Lady Smallwood mentioned that there’s been no chatter of someone having him, though, and I’ve heard nothing new.”

“Maybe they’re looking for information from him and…” John said quietly.

“There is that fear,” Anthea said. “Every system that Sherlock gets operational, is being reinforced by IT and protected as though Mr. Holmes has been compromised.” 

Silence followed that remark. John fidgeted with the edge of his jumper and Sherlock’s fingers started trembling. He almost knocked over his tea cup. His knowledge of what governments, including Mycroft, did to extract information, mingled with memories of Serbia made him shudder. “That’s all I have for now,” he said tiredly. “I’m going to look at the rest of the video to see if I can find him. The ridiculous masks are a bloody hindrance.”

“I’ll make sure you get that information as soon as possible,” Anthea said. “Please let me know if you need anything else.”

Sherlock had already turned to stare at the computer again. “Thank you,” John murmured. “I’ll make him eat too.”

*~*~*

Mycroft sighed contentedly and relaxed against the wall. After their last conversation, they’d rested. Sergei had made a fresh pot of tea, some sort of chocolate chai, and Viktor had found a box of gingerbread men, which they were currently devouring. Viktor had started humming and half-singing a Ukrainian drinking song but changing the lyrics to include biscuits. Mycroft hummed along as best he could.

The situation was still utterly surreal but Mycroft decided not to worry about it. He was still alive; he was more alive than he would have been otherwise. He was well fed; he’d been fed delicious home-cooked food and that never happened unless he went to Mummy’s. Yet, he was a prisoner who should, for all intents and purposes be killed. His own department would have killed him by now.

“I think you need another,” Viktor said.

Mycroft nodded. “I do.”

“This one is a Venezuelan drug lord,” Viktor said playfully and handed him a biscuit.

“He shall be executed immediately,” Mycroft said and both giggled. Mycroft was fascinated by Viktor. The man had a charming personality, kissed and danced rather well, was an accomplished cook and kidnapper, and was clearly involved with the Russian mob. Certainly no goldfish. Mycroft had decided that he would probably never be bored around Viktor. And he seemed to care. That last one frightened Mycroft but it also drew him towards the man, like a moth to the flame. Viktor seemed so much like him but yet was able to connect to others whereas Mycroft, underneath his exterior, hid from people.

“You’re not executing him fast enough,” Viktor noted. “I’ve already sent two more to their untimely demise.” Mycroft laughed and then popped the gingerbread man biscuit into his mouth before holding out his hand for another. He was immediately given three more, all Canadian smugglers according to Viktor. Mycroft noted that Viktor was also an unashamed sweet tooth, much like himself.

“I suppose we need to discuss more serious things,” Viktor said. 

“Yes, we do,” Mycroft agreed and forced himself to remain calm. 

“I was obviously drugged. Otherwise I would never have looked at you twice. I’m trying to figure out who would do that and why? I’m a simple bookkeeper.”

“Just a bookkeeper?”

“Yes.”

“A bookkeeper with a knife.”

Viktor chuckled. “Well, the books I keep are interesting and the crowd is a bit rough but I’m really a nobody.” Mycroft nodded as he followed. “And the person that I think drugged me knew that. I don’t know what to make of it.”

“There has to be something that you have that someone wanted.”

“But that’s it, I don’t,” Viktor said. “Well, let me explain. I’m unnerved by the whole situation so you may be able to see it more clearly than I do.”

“I’m not sure how well I’m doing right now but I may be able to figure something out.” Mycroft smiled. The thought of being able to help Viktor just a little pleased him.

“That’s what I’m hoping. I’m angry that I was drugged and I can’t find a reason, which is very frustrating.”

“Understandably so.”

“I keep the books for some corporations that have ties with the Russian mob. I also have ties with some Italian mafia families in the United States but that is more logistics than anything else. I simply play with the numbers. I have no information on their plans, on their operations, on what they want or don’t want. There are more valuable targets at every level in each organization. I have no idea why I was targeted.”

“Do people think you know more than you do?” Mycroft asked. He wasn’t sure he should ask about Sergei but then decided to proceed. “I mean you have a military caliber bodyguard. That’s going to draw attention.”

“Yes, but Sergei and I don’t normally work together and no one knew we were both there,” Viktor explained. “As a matter of fact, no one knew Sergei was there except me and that was simply by chance. I was there for other reasons.”

Mycroft nodded. He could see why Viktor was perplexed. “How well known was it that you would be attending?”

“Three people knew,” Viktor answered. “One, the ambassador, who is an old friend. Two, the chief of staff, who is also an old friend. And three, the person with whom I was meeting to discuss some matters about the US companies. That’s it.”

“Let me think.” Mycroft took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He had a sinking feeling that he knew exactly what happened. “Is that person an American, perhaps in intelligence?”

“He’s Russian,” Viktor said. “I know he visits the United States frequently. Maybe the Russian consulate somewhere. But I’m not sure. I’d met him the day before because my boss, whom I can’t talk about, who also works in the United States, asked me to set up a correspondence with him.”

“Hmmmm... “ Mycroft mused pensively to buy himself some time as he determined what would be safe to discuss.

“I’m angry and frustrated that I was drugged for no valid reason,” Viktor repeated. “I would never have gotten involved in Sergei’s business and accidentally kidnapped you if I hadn’t been drugged and who knows what I said to others. Even if it’s not important, my boss frowns on any sort of talking. I don’t know what to do but if I knew who or why then I could start putting everything back together.”

“I would love to hear how the books are cooked, perhaps while eating another omelet,” Mycroft teased. Viktor giggled and Mycroft found that little bit of laughter adorable. He forced himself to consider the dangers of disclosing information. “Again, thank you for breakfast.”

“Next time, I’ll make sure to ask for the cinnamon pancakes a bit more strongly,” Viktor said and handed Mycroft a few more biscuits. “We’re almost out.”

“That’s a shame,” Mycroft said and then took a deep breath. “I’m not sure this is even related but it’s information that, with some digging, anyone competent can find out.”

“Yes?”

“The CIA has been developing some drugs to be used during interrogations and perhaps abductions,” Mycroft said slowly. Viktor gasped. “From what I heard, one drug was being moved to live trials on low level soft targets in Eastern Europe.”

“I’m a low-level soft target,” Viktor said and Mycroft heard the anger underneath it. “I might provide some useful information but the risk is minimal if something went wrong. I’m the perfect test subject for their stupid drug.”

“That’s what it would seem,” Mycroft said. “And because you don’t seem to work for specifically one person, no one would immediately notice if you disappeared.”

“Do you know any specifics of what they were doing?” Viktor asked. Mycroft could sense how much emotion the man was keeping in check. “Did they even know it was safe?”

“I don’t,” Mycroft replied. “MI5 doesn’t deal with the CIA all that much. I’d heard it was deemed safe _enough_ to test.”

“But the CIA is fairly cavalier about these things,” Viktor growled.

“Yes, they are,” Mycroft said and, suddenly, all the instances he’d been cavalier with other people’s lives flashed across his mind and fell neatly in a little row. If Viktor had died or been taken before the two had met, he’d be dead. He would have been gunned down in a meeting room. That thought horrified Mycroft but not as much as the thought that Viktor- interesting, complex, caring Viktor- would have been hurt.

*~*~*


	9. Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock continues to analyze the video from the masquerade ball while Mycroft and Viktor finish their conversation.

**Understanding**

“Open your mouth, Sherlock,” John ordered. Sherlock did so while continuing to stare at the computer screen showing people dancing and John popped a bite of fish in. “Chew. Swallow. Don’t choke. Only two more bites and three chips.”

“It’s cold,” Sherlock grumbled, still keeping his attention fixed on the screen.

“You know, Sherlock, I’m not going to say much because I get it, you’re stressed, and Mycroft’s life is on the line…”

“Then don’t. I’m trying to think.”

“We’re not going to talk about the fact that here I am, _feeding you_ , but if you at least opened your mouth when I suggested it, we’d be done by now and the chips wouldn’t be cold and soggy.”

“Mmm, yes. Look at them all, will you, John, just dancing merrily, not a care in the world beyond who am I sleeping with tonight, completely unaware of what’s about to happen.”

“Would you like some more tea?”

“Yes, black, please.”

“Open you mouth, one more bite, and then I’ll go get you another cup,” John muttered while rolling his eyes. Sherlock complied. John fed him another bite, set the plate down, and went to get more tea. 

Sherlock sighed, paused the video, and actually looked up to watch his friend walk out of the room. Shaking his head, he picked up the fork and quickly finished the remainder of his food. The chips were quite awful by that point but at least he was done. 

Sherlock had been reviewing the video of the main ballroom with the hope of locating Mycroft. He certainly wouldn’t expect to find his brother carousing amidst the revelers but perhaps chatting on the side or enjoying a glass of sparkling water. Mycroft never drank before meetings. So far nothing, but the camera feed was all jumbled from the multiple cameras in the main ballroom and it took time for Sherlock to get through it.

He vaguely heard John return and mumble something about Anthea having found him some black currant tea followed by an exclamation of amazement that Sherlock had managed to finish his lunch. Sherlock ignored him. When he reached the end of the feed, he pursed his lips and started over but this time slowed it even more so that he could map every face, masked or not, and every person. 

“Any luck?” John finally asked.

“Not yet,” Sherlock said. “The first time I was getting a feel for how this video was set up, when the cameras switched, where each camera is positioned and the area it pans, as well as the general flow of the guests. Now I’ve slowed it down and I’m looking at each person.”

“It still looks quite fast to me to be able to do that,” John said. “You think you’re really going to able able to look at everyone?”

“Yes, come watch with me,” Sherlock said and John pulled his chair next to Sherlock’s. “We’re at the first dance. It’s a Polonaise and there are just a few people dancing so I’m tracking the people in the background. They’re watching the dancers and not moving so it’s much easier.”

“It would be nice if Mycroft were right there in the front,” John said wistfully.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “Now they’re dancing a minuet and a few others have joined the dance floor but it’s still fairly easy.” They watched for the duration of the piece even though the feed switched from camera to camera and it was a bit dizzying. After the third dance, shock swept across the faces of the dancers. Their movements became confused but then more modern.

“Someone changed the music,” Sherlock said. “Some pop gibberish, I’d say. Good thing we don’t have the audio. It’s probably atrocious. They eventually get it though.”

“They look like they’re having _more fun_ than before,” John pointed out. Sherlock snorted with disgust. “They are!” John insisted.

Sherlock shook his head. They both continued to watch for several more songs with Sherlock explaining the different camera positions or the types of dances. John wasn’t sure how his friend could get all that from a low quality video with no sound but he wasn’t about to argue.

After about an hour, which would have been perhaps a dozen more songs, Sherlock stopped the video and exclaimed, “There! I think I found him!” He made a note of the camera and the time stamp.

“Where?”

Sherlock rewound the video and started playing it even more slowly before pointing at a very fuzzy and thoroughly well-hidden man. “There. You can barely see him. Mycroft was always instinctively aware of cameras and how to avoid them.”

“Not good in _this_ situation.”

“No, but see, you can get a bit of one side. He’s tall, slender but with a hint of a tummy, and that’s how he holds his arms when he’s waltzing.”

“You can tell that’s a waltz?”

“Obviously.”

“Right, but we can’t see his face. There’s that mask.”

“No, we can’t, but we can tell a lot of other things. He’s relaxed, nothing is forced.”

“So... dancing willing?”

“Yes. Look at his partner.”

“What partner? I don’t see anything with all those people.”

“Exactly. You’re not observing, John,” Sherlock groused. “You can’t see his head because he’s about five eight and hidden by the other person. See the edge of his arm and shoulder. Confirms the height. Mycroft is wearing black. Look at the different shading on the lower leg that can barely be seen next to Mycroft. Gray, not black, tuxedo. See how far down the back edges of the mask rest? That means full face mask. There is some distinctive plumage peeking out from behind but depending on what other people wore, that might not be overly helpful.”

“Okay, so, five-eight, gray tux, and full mask with some feathers, that’s much more than what we had before,” John said. “What next?”

Sherlock started the video. Both dancers seemed adept at disappearing from view altogether too frequently and finding others to block them from the cameras. Sherlock made notes of the times and their position with relation to reference points in the ballroom as best as he could.

“What are you going to do with all those numbers?” John asked.

“Triangulate their path through the room and then try to determine where they go afterward,” Sherlock answered.

“Makes sense. Okay, I see that they’ve stopped.”

“And they’re now standing side to side instead of facing. How odd,” Sherlock said and made a few notes. The video switched to another view and both took a deep breath. “We should be able to catch them on the anterior camera next. They waited and then Sherlock pointed to the screen. “There. All you see is his hand. Mycroft holds his hand that way. Then it drops and they walk out of view but look at the position of the other people.”

“I see _them_ clearly,” John said flatly.

“Based on the position of the camera and the way that people are moving, they are walking in the _opposite_ direction which Mycroft needed to go for the meeting,” Sherlock said while jotting down more notes.

“Where are they going?”

“That’s the million dollar question, John,” Sherlock said. “It looks like toward a corner of the room but I’d say the front door.”

“They seem to have vanished.”

“Yes, they walked out of sight of that camera. I’m hoping another picks them up.” Both men watched the camera feed intently. Neither man reappeared. Eventually they got to the time frame of the attack. Sherlock paused the video and buried his hands in his face.

“He had to have gone somewhere,” John said gently.

“But where?” Sherlock said. “There’s nothing except that one dance.

“Did they get you the single camera feeds?”

“Yes, they’re all mislabelled but I have them,” Sherlock growled. “How difficult is it to label a camera feed?”

“If embassies are anything like the military,” John quipped. “I’m not at all surprised.”

“Let’s start with the front door camera,” Sherlock suggested. John nodded and went to get more tea while Sherlock determined which file contained that particular video. They watched the feed as guests arrived, then a decent flow of arrivals with a few departures, until the mass exodus after the gunfire.

“Not very useful,” Johns said with some frustration.

“No,” Sherlock agreed, “But let’s look at the time just after they were dancing a few more times.”

“If it was Mycroft, he probably wouldn’t go out the front door,” John said. “That’s too obvious for Mr. Kidnaps People In Black Cars.”

“True, but he could be trying to hide in plain sight or he could have been forced to leave at that point, and we’re assuming that it was Mycroft that we saw, although I’m reasonably sure it was,” Sherlock said. He brought the video to the appropriate time and the two watched it several times. 

Eventually, Sherlock inhaled sharply. “Bollocks!” Look at that will you!” He started the section of video once more. “Yes. Yes. There it is.”

“What.”

“Right there!”

“What?!”

“It’s beautiful,” Sherlock said. “Really masterful.”

“Please explain it to me in non-Holmes speak.”

“It’s been put on an intricate loop.”

“What do you mean?”

“After a certain point, it loops back for ten seconds, then loops to another spot, all vaguely random but with that number of people no one would be able to notice easily. It’s brilliant.”

“But that leaves us with nothing.”

“No, it gives us more leads to follow,” Sherlock stated cheerfully. “Can you go ask Anthea for all the new information on the attackers?”

“Of course,” John said although Sherlock could tell that his friend hadn’t quite gotten all of it. After John left the office, he replayed the portion of the video where the man that had to be Mycroft was dancing. It _had_ to be Mycroft because a world without his annoying, controlling, meticulous, and utter pain-in-the-arse brother felt hollow. Sherlock realized that he’d never actually shown Mycroft any kindness, appreciation, or even acknowledgment for everything that his brother had done for him and now, he might not have the chance.

*~*~* 

“{It’s time,}” Sebastian said as he walked into the room. Jim felt Mycroft tense at hearing the voice and footsteps. He was still blindfolded leaning against the bed with Jim sitting next to him.

“{We’re not completely ready,}” Jim said and pouted. “{Maybe ten minutes?}”

“{I’ll put the tea mugs away and throw out the trash, but that’s it, Viktor,}” Sebastian said firmly. Jim felt Mycroft shiver. They hadn’t reached any sort of agreement yet although Jim had been trying to come up with a feasible way to keep Mycroft. However, there didn’t seem to be any that didn’t involve severe imprisonment and Jim couldn’t do that to the man.

He handed the tea mugs to Sebastian but then pulled Mycroft close. “Don’t be afraid of Sergei, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “He’s just trying to keep me on schedule. I tend to get distracted by interesting things.”

Myroft chuckled but then sighed. “At this point, you could probably call me Mycroft,” he said. “Mr. Holmes seems unnecessarily formal especially if things aren’t going to go well for me.”

“Pssht, we haven’t discussed the plan yet, Mr. Holmes, Mycroft,” Jim said and then practiced the name a few more times, varying the enunciations. “Hmmmmm… Myyyycroft, Mycroffft, no, not quite right. Let me try to roll the Rs, Mycrrrroft. I like that one. Very sexy. But I think I’ll go with Mika. It’s a good Russian nickname.” Mycroft laughed. “You look like a Mika.”

“I’m not sure I look like much of anything right now,” Mycroft said and then both turned toward the door when Sebastian coughed discreetly.

Jim glared at Sebastian. “{Give us a minute or five.}”

“{Viktor, I needed to be in Moscow an hour ago,}” Sebastian said and stared pointedly at Jim while setting down all things he had brought with him: syringes, restraints, clothes, sheets, and rope. He then pointed to the handgun at his hip.

Jim shook his head. “What do you know about me, Mika?”

“Very little,” Mycroft replied. “You like to cook and you like sweets. You drink tea and prefer cinnamon pancakes to oven potatoes.”

Jim tilted his head and chuckled. “{See, Sergei, he understands my obsession for cinnamon after just our first date.}”

“{First date, heh? You will never see another cinnamon pancake for the rest of your life if we don’t get moving,}” Sebastian threatened playfully and Jim proceeded to stick his tongue out at him.

“{He’s not very nice to you,}” Mycroft said so that Sergei would understand him. 

Jim grinned broadly. “{No, he’s not. He’s terrible!}” He turned to scowl at Sebastian but then switched back to his heavily accented English. “What else do you _know_?” he asked deliberately

Mycroft took a deep breath and Jim knew that the man understood what they were doing. “Nothing,” he said. “I don’t remember anything.”

“That’s good,” Jim said. “Very good, Mika. Because if you did remember something that I _didn’t_ say about things that _didn’t happen_ , I would have to set those rumors straight one way or another.”

“There is nothing to remember,” Mycroft said. “Nothing happened; there was nothing to say.” He tightened his arms around Jim. “You have my word.”

“You won’t try to find me, ever, after this,” Jim said and didn’t quite manage to hide the sadness from his voice.

“No, I won’t.” Mycroft’s voice was equally sad. “I never... met you.” He seemed to choke on the word never.

“What happened was just an odd set of circumstances, one after the other, but you ended up safe.”

“A set of very strange coincidences.”

“You met your old friend, Anatoly Chmelař, senior aide to the Checkoslovakian consul.”

“Dear Anatoly,” Mycroft said, obviously going along with the story. “It had been too long.” 

“Much too long. And that spectacular collection of insects embedded in amber that he’s very proud of.”

“It’s truly spectacular.”

“He just had to show you, that night,” Jim said.

“And he lives so close to the embassy,” Mycroft said. 

“You couldn’t say no.”

“It was just a few minutes. No one would notice that I was gone.”

“But you had a few drinks, lost track of the time,” Jim continued.

“We had a lot to catch up on.”

“And you returned to the embassy just as the bullets started flying and you hit your head. Anatoly, bless his heart, thought the best thing to do was bring you to the Czech Republic consulate so you could rest. You were quite out of it.”

“Gunfire gives me a migraine,” Mycroft said. “I needed lots of rest.”

“Yes, then Anatoly brought you to the British consulate once you were feeling better.”

“Once I was feeling better and had more of my wits about me.”

“Anatoly is such a good friend but wits are not his strong suit,” Jim said. 

“No, they are not.”

“I’ll make sure Anatoly also remembers what happened.”

“Good,” Mycroft agreed. “He should. He was with me, such a dear fellow, insured my safety.” He sighed. “And that’s it?”

“That’s it; I do _not_ exist,” Jim said. Sadness again tinged his voice. “Sergei will put you to sleep and when you wake up, it will be over. You’ll be at the British consulate.” He brought his fingertips to Mycroft’s lips. “I enjoyed the waltz, and the kiss though.” He turned and looked at Sebastian, who rose and picked up a syringe.

“As did I,” Mycroft said. “The dance and the kiss were magical. That, at least, can be our memory.”

“In another life, Mika,” Jim whispered. “I could have loved you.”

Sebastian stepped behind Mycroft, took one of the man’s arms, and inserted the needle. Mycroft ignored him. “In another life, Viktor, I would have done something about it…” He struggled to continue. “Because I _already_ … love you…” He fell against Jim.

 

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hat tip to fabricdragon who has a story [In Another Life](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13806975/chapters/31745892), which is part 2 of her series using the same prompts as this story.


End file.
